A Few Things I know

• My mama tells a good story.
• Coming from a long line of alcoholics makes for a much more interesting family history.
• Hearing that your distinguished ancestors broke their faces, pissed themselves, and liked to sing when they got drunk makes it feel like you are honoring them when you make an ass of yourself. You just don't play the piano as well.
• When I stumble and hesitate when choosing between dropping the baby and dropping the drink, I now know that I come by it honestly.
• Do it yourself hysterectomies are hysterical. Get it?
  
• Taxi drivers make excellent drinking partners.
• There is not much that Grandma Palmer, Aunt lessie, Aunt Dot, or Dad wouldn't say. I guess I come by that honestly, too.

This barely breaks the surface. I am having a blast writing all of this down.* Word count creeping ever higher.

*Don't worry, family. If it ever makes the light of day, I will change names to protect the [not so] innocent.

Bo Reincarnate

My Mom and Dad got a new dog. I knew they couldn't hold out much longer. They have had a dog at all times for as long as I can remember. Going a year or more without one seemed so strange to me. Granted, they had Keeley and Bo for EVAH, and they they were completely a part of the family.

Well, here is the crazy thing. Mom picked out a new dog. And it is almost exactly like Bo. It even sits on people's laps and growls. Just like Bo used to do.

For anyone who knew Bo, you will know that it is hysterical that Mom got another dog like him. He was the meanest son of a bitch you ever laid eyes on. If you opened a door and Bo was behind it, he would attack the door and he actually lost teeth a few times. My friend Scott always thought we should make our family Christmas card a picture of Bo snarling at the camera. And he was right, because it was the funniest thing ever.

Anyway, no picture of the new little man, whose name is Max. He sure is cute.

Typical Tiller

Tiller is the kind of kid that yells out, "Mama, I'm stuck!"

I walk around the corner to the entryway and see that she has put her head through the balustrade. She is on the first step, and crying her eyes out, and saying over and over, "Mama, I'm stuck."

My first instinct is panic. That is a lie. Panic is my second instinct. First instinct was to stare at her and then laugh. I yell up the stairs, "Todd? Can you come down here, please?" in the same faux-calm voice my father used one summer day in the 80s, when we were supposed to leave in a couple of hours for a week's vacation at the lakehouse. I believe his exact words from the parquet hallway at the bottom of the stairs, up to my Mom, were: "Honey, can you come down here? I had a little accident with the lawn mower."

He had, in fact, cut his toe off with the lawnmower.

We walked downstairs to find him standing in a pool of his own blood. He then yelled at me to go out in the yard and look for his toe. I never did find that thing.

Okay, so Tiller was not bleeding, but she was screaming, and crying, and trying to pull her head out of the balustrade, and getting a little panicky when it wouldn't come out. I was on the floor of the entry, talking to her, and trying to feel around her head to see just how tight it was, and as Todd came down the stairs, he probably heard me mutter, in true Mother-of-the-Year fashion, "Baby, how the fuck did you manage to do this?"

I told Todd to go get dish liquid from the sink, thinking we could slick her head up with soap and push it back through. He ignored me, walked between Tiller and me, and then gently pushed her head right back through. Much crying ensued, but we think little to no brain damage.

Then we rocked her and held her and looked at each other over her head, shaking our heads and both thinking to ourselves, Typical Tiller. This will not be the last.

Strange

It is very strange to watch the bonding experience between a 22-month old little girl, and a 91-year-old man. They don't have a lot to talk about, and she can't enunciate well, and he couldn't even hear it if she did. They both like food. And they hug a lot, which is not at all how I remember my grandfather being with me and my sister when we were little. He keeps on telling her that she is such a sweet little girl that we should've named her "Love." Who is this man?

This was the man that when you told him, "Goodbye! I love you, Pop!" would grunt in reply. I think he is either dying or possessed. The funny thing about him, though, is that I honestly think he thinks he is going to live forever. He told her tonight that it was good she liked books, because maybe she would get a scholarship, and that he would help her out with tuition. That's like 16 years away. He would be 107.

The sad part is that i could sooner see him living till 107 than actually paying for all of someone's college. He is that stingy. He cuts one paper towel into four pieces, then uses one piece for days on end. I put tin foil over his dinner and then threw it in the trash can; He pulled it back out and then washed it and folded it up for later.

You can't make this shit up. Someday I'll have to write about the mountain of fast food jelly packets he was hording. Good stuff.

Smart Cookie

Husband goes out of town and, in excitement over evening of unadulterated control of television, Annie drinks a complete bottle of wine over the course of the evening.

Very with it this morning at 7 a.m. when son pooped on potty (so proud!) and then came in and asked me to wipe his butt. Who needs coffee?

Waiting for nap time. For me. I need a nap.

I thought that I had learned that, as my Mama says, "The wages of sin are not always death." For the non-Southerner, I believe that translates to "Don't drink a shitload when you have to get up with two kids under four the next day."

Danger!

I come from some wild women. . .



This was in my mom's family photos. The photo says "Mother 1870," but that seems a little early for this one, especially since the sign says something about auto insurance. Would love to be able to research the clothing to date it more accurately. We are also not sure who "Mother" is (she is the one third from the right), but have it narrowed down to one of the following:

• My Grandmother Vivian's mother, Ida Stevens Dunstan
• My mother's Aunt Zelma's mother who, do to an out-of-wedlock pregnancy and adoption, could have referred to her birth mother, who was my grandmother's mother (Ida)
• Ida's sister, Beulah, who adopted and raised Zelma.

Confused yet? Anyway, I love the picture and think it is just the coolest thing ever. They look like trouble. I think they are holding instruments, too. Nice twist.

This is my mom (right), with her best friend Judy in Daytona Beach.



Then there's Grandma and Aunt Dot. My cousin remarked that he thought this picture was staged. I don't think so. This is what family gatherings in my childhood looked like. Seriously.



I'll leave the wild woman pictures of myself for Matilda to blog. Plus, I ain't finished. Grandma and Aunt Dot were still doin' it in their 80's. I'm not even 35 yet.