Late Night Treat

Sitting on the glider last night, relaxing and talking with Mims, when his cell phone rings. Mims goes inside to answer it, and it's my Daddy. As he comes back outside, with his cell phone, talking so loud that all neighbors can hear, my mind begins to trail off and I'm smiling.

They think they have this secret code. He and my Daddy. Only it's not so secret. When they only want to talk to one another, man talk, they call each others cell phone. Because they know, no one else is going to answer it. They're not going to be forced to make nice social talk with anyone else, in order to get to, who they really called for. The man talk begins as I scuffle my feet to make the glider move with ease and grace.

At some point the subject turns to drinking. Alcohol. Which is strange, because neither my Daddy nor Mims drink anything alcohol related anymore. My ears are winding in and out of the words coming from Mims when I realize they are talking about my Granddaddy. And his nightly "treat".

Now to fully understand all of this story and how special the events are to me, you'll need to go back to the beginning of my blog and read the Butterfly stories. There are only a few. It's not like you have to buy a book to catch up. The blogs are free, and are a direct relation to this blog today. Makes everything come full circle, if you will. Or not. You can wing it and try and figure it out yourself.

A few years before my Granddaddy passed, I invited him to stay the weekend with me and my boys. I had already moved to Quincy, to the house out on Hwy 65. None of my grandparents had ever spent the night/weekend in any of my homes before so this was quite a deal for me. That and my relationship with my Granddaddy was probably the most unusual of them all.

He drove down on a Saturday. Joshua and Zach took him for the tour, showed him where he and Zach went to school. Joshua was not driving yet, so they of course came back with wild, funny stories of my Granddaddy's driving abilities. We all had a nice big dinner, we talked and laughed and remembered.

After dinner, the dishes all washed and the kitchen clean, we all retired to the front porch. It was a nice evening outside, perfect for front porch swinging and talking. My Granddaddy went to Josh's bedroom where he would be sleeping, went into his suitcase and got out his "treat" bottle. Every night, for as long as I could remember, he would have a small shot of whiskey as his nightly treat. Sometimes he would smoke his cigarette, sometimes not. Depending on the timing. If he was in a flux of "I'm not smoking anymore" or if he had succumbed to the old habit and he was. He would pour less than a quarter of his treat juice into the glass, three fingers I think they call it, sipping it slowly, waiting on the familiar warmth to fill his body. Sometimes he had a cold beer as his "chaser", but not always. But it was one shot, and one beer, no more.

My Granddaddy was in World War II. He was in the Navy and was injured before he came home. At some point during his treatment he became addicted to the pain medication. It delayed his return home by several months. I think he always knew, that he could become addicted again. Which was the very reason for the one shot, one beer and no more.

The talk on the glider last night brought flashes of memory crashing inside my head. Of my granddaddy, and how proud he was to see where we were, where me and the boys had moved. I can remember sitting on the swing that night, wondering if my MaMa was looking down at all of us. Looking down at her two great grandchildren, the youngest who she never knew at all before she left us. My Mims, who she never knew but would have been crazy about. And her husband, the man who loved her like he would never love another. Listening to us laugh and talk. 

My MaMa had known from the start where we were, where we had moved to, but now, my Granddaddy who was still here, could also be at peace. Once he got back home to Phenix City, Alabama, he could close his eyes at any given moment, and be back here with us. And know that we were safe and in good hands. And happy. All of us were happy.

That weekend meant everything to me. It was a partial healing. A healing of what exactly, I'm not really sure. Two people who never really understood one another. Two people who loved one person as much as you could ever love anyone. And one person, me, who would realize too late, the different forms and measures that love presents itself.

My MaMa was a smart, smart woman. Full of compassion, love, patience and forgiveness. That she loved a man named James Ray Mount was enough for me. And that he loved her, and she married him, made him the luckiest man in the world.

MaMa and Granddaddy, we're all still here in Quincy, over here on Lowe Street. Joshua is in Tuscaloosa, but he and his Josh will be here next weekend. Get some rest. Because we have a weekend full of things to do. Football game on Friday night. Mama and Daddy will be here Sunday for dinner. We'd love for you to come. Let me know when you're here, show me a butterfly or two. Pull up a seat, and sit with us while we laugh, talk and shoot the breeze.  Everything we are began with the two of you. Without you, there would be no us. We love you and thank you for bringing us to one another through your love. See you next weekend, come as you are, stay as long as you can.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Absence Does NOT Make The Heart Grow Fonder

Broken Ties,  riddled with weeds from unkempt behavior

I tried to be the bridge. Last year and the year before, I reached out and did the communicating. Gave the scores by text. Baseball, football, and basketball. Sent pictures. Tagged pictures. Posted and shared publications from your oldest son.

The products of divorce are not responsible for being the communicators in the aftermath. No matter where my children might be, I will not let the lines of communication close down. Even if am the only one calling, I will not let the lines of communication collapse. It's my job, as the parent, to make sure my CHILDREN know that I am paying attention. That I still care.

That I really do wish I hadn't missed your first prom and how handsome you were. Your biggest tackle and the after game re-plays at 2am. Your first break up and the heartache that shows all over your face and in every step you take for weeks. Your first publication and the joy and pride in your voice along with the next seven or eight publications that would follow.  The fear in your voice as a tornado rips through your town, ripping apart everything 7 lanes over. The everyday joys and heartaches of being a teenager and young men maneuvering their way through manhood.

How do parents think it's the child's responsibility to care? Two hours, six hours or twelve hours, you moved away from the child. You need to build that bridge. Maintain that bridge on a regular basis. Reinforce the nails and bindings to keep it strong. To ensure, that ANYTIME someone needs to cross over, there will be no mountains that have formed too high to block the other side.

The thing is, I am here. I am here for everything. I see it all. I absorb all the the good and all of the bad. I gave both of the sex talks to both of the boys. Both of them, more than once. And I mean, good, descriptive, and detailed talks.  And in case you're wondering, I, together with their Daddy, have raised two of the most wonderful and respectful gentlemen anyone would ever meet.

They both know how to fight for the underdog, help those who cannot help themselves, treat both men and women with respect, and work damned hard for what they want. I didn't raise lazy children. They have both had paying jobs since they were fifteen years old. And both learned early, money doesn't grow on trees, come from fairy money angels, but from hard, tough work. If they misbehave, they know there are consequences. If they treat people badly, there are consequences. If they are five minutes late with no phone call, there are consequences.

While I appreciate the monetary assistance you provide, which pays almost half of the youngest child's' tuition, they would both appreciate a real phone call. Or a real text. Or a real comment on their face book wall. I quit sending you pictures or tagging pictures and stories that got no comment. Comments that would have not been for me, but for them.

Every person directly involved in a divorce deserves a second chance. The children, the parents, everyone. Everyone who was part of an unhappy situation deserves to be happy. Children gain bonus parents and sisters and brothers. It should work that way. It doesn't always. Distance can make that hard. Hard, but not impossible. Sometimes, you have to work hard at it. Sometimes, you have to keep putting yourself in their faces, letting them know you care and you're not going away. Infuse yourself in their lives in such a way, there is no doubt, that you are expecting to be a part of it, no matter what. No matter how hard they make it for you.

I did.  I did that. It works. I have bonus children and grandchildren, and they are eight hours away from me.  I have no blood relation, but now I'm a MeMa and I couldn't be prouder. And quite honestly, I haven't even had the pleasure of meeting some of them personally yet.

It's not working out that way for you, because you're not invested. Your soul and your heart are not invested. You're not trying. At all. So, you get what you get. You get silly forward texts that are not addressed to anyone in particular that you send to your sons, that are not answered. You get cell phone messages that are not returned. I know it's like the oldest thing in the book, but we still have a house phone. Call it. You can better believe I can get someone to the phone for you.

Try. Before there is no turning back. It's very close. I hope you understand that. The death of your relationship with your children is so close, you should be able to smell it by now. It's so stagnant, rigor mortise is setting in. Save it. Save the relationships before all you have left are memories of what you left behind.

Quite frankly, if I were part of your new memories, it would scare the hell out of me how easy it is for you to walk away. From your own children, your parents, from everything you used to know. For there, by the grace of God, go they.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

As The Seasons Turn

Sweat pants. Dark before six pm. Leaves falling. Yard work is raking instead of mowing and beds are filled with straw. Haystacks with pumpkins and scarecrows. Pumpkin pie and carved pumpkin faces. Spongebob, Superman and Cinderella take over the streets. Buckets filled with sweets and fresh fruits. Cold mornings, warm days, cold nights. Furnaces lit. Wood cut, gathered and stacked. And a lucky few still have cherished wood stoves to claim and light. Yellow, orange, rust and white Mums in twin pots on front porches.

I'm ready for everything October and the next few months brings. Burning leaves with a smoke that intoxicates and perfumes the air with a scent that makes my spine tingle with pleasure. And neighborhood bonfires. Nights spent with good people and loads of laughter. And smores. I'm ready to fumble for my keys in the dark, because I've worked late and now the sun has gone down. Gone down an hour or so earlier than summer time would know about. I have already started gathering winter blankets to put on top of bedsheets and under comforters. I'm watching Zach scrambling for a jacket in the morning before he leaves for school. 

I'm ready to sit on the front porch glider, bundled up in a warm hoodie until my bones begin to ache from the cold. I'm ready to fill the feeders for all the birds that are surely headed South for the winter. Further down South, but we will see them first. I'm ready to gather pecans to crack and shell as I sit and watch football on television because it's too cold and nasty to venture outside.  I'm ready to cook big pots of soup and big pots of chili for those cold weekends when you spend your time looking for whatever will warm your soul from the inside out.

And I think I am REALLY, REALLY ready to see Zach in something else besides those dang nylon gym shorts and white tee shirts. Lawd...is there a teenage boy ANYWHERE who owns any other clothing than that I ask you?! He has so many nice shorts and shirts (I would say nice tops here, but if he reads this he will freak out!) that I have maybe seen on his body once or twice. Instead he would rather wear some FAMU hoodie somebody 'gave' him, several tee shirts I KNOW I did not purchase, and Tater's camouflage clog shoes he wears like they were made of gold.

And with the cold, brings the next season of ball, which is basketball. And even if Zach decides not to play school ball (which he is pondering as I write) I know our own driveway and goal will get a workout like nobody's business. He and Matt and whoever else piles up at our house, will be right outside my front window, whooping and hollering, laughing, trash talking, shucking and jiving. Bringing life to a too long dead driveway and this old lady sitting on the inside listening. And smiling.

The man cave will come alive with ping pong matches, Foosball games, and musical instruments long neglected for more fun outside.  Drums, electric guitars and piano's blaring noise that is truly music to my ears.

Yes, I'm ready to hibernate for awhile. To be able to come home, sling off my work clothes and grab some sweats and a comfortable old tee shirt, claim my recliner and not move. Because I don't have to move. It's dark, it's cold, and I don't have to feel guilty about doing nothing. Get caught up on my reading. I probably read three times the number of books during winter than I do any other time. No guilt. No flower beds to be weeded, no lawn or flowers to be watered, and no sunshine to lure me outside.

But come Spring, be guaranteed, I will be so ready to see it again too. So ready for some warmth, longer days and beautiful blooming flowers. I'll be whining about being ready to go fishing, hooking some worms and smelling some lake water. Kind of brings you to that old saying we've all heard a million and one times, "We're just never satisfied are we?"

So folks, grab a book, a blanket, a cup of coffee and a bowl of soup and join me. Live the good life on the inside for a few months. Get to know everybody in your house again. Get caught on your television shows. Get your inside projects done. And get rested up for the next season in line. I don't know about you, but I'm not getting getting any younger, and it takes these slow, cold winters to help me gear up for those fast, hot summers!

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

A Mother First....Please

A week or so ago I created a post on Face Book. And in that post I was mullygrubbing about my children no longer needing me, calling me when they got good and darn ready, and reminiscing about how much I used to love to read to my children and mistakenly thought, they would still, always need me the same way.

My post received many comments. All alike comments. Mothers all, needing and wanting the same thing. To be wanted. Still.

One of the comments was from my friend Penny Riley. She was joining the conversation, relaying memories of how her oldest son Gabe had treated her for a time in his life, and how she, had treated her mother as a teenager.

Gabe was taken Home July before last. A hero lost as a casualty of war. Immediately upon reading Penny's post, my entire body came to attention, and the ridiculousness of my whining was front and center in my mind.

My next post was dedicated to Penny and her Gabe, and my reality check. What would happen next, as a result of that second post, would bring me to my knees again. This time in shame, stupidity, and great respect. Penny would post again, this time to my private in box. This is the post, not the message in it's entirety, but the most important part of her words follow next:

"Hey Sister, I saw your reply to my post and I just want to say please don't think I was trying to do anything other than still be Gabe's Mom and talk about him like always. I was not trying to teach a lesson. Please, please, please don't think that! We all know you adore your boys the way I do and the other Moms here do theirs. I was just trying to be part of the Mom conversation, to make me feel normal again. Luke hasn't gotten to the stage where he doesn't need me, but Gabe did several years ago, so that's the experience I was drawing on. I'm still his Mom. But I keep putting my foot in my mouth when I try to relate my mothering experiences. Does this make sense? I hope I didn't offend you. I was just trying to say we have all been through this (if the kid is old enough), and that we all support you and understand how sad that "not needed" feeling is when you are the one feeling it. It burns!! Anyway, I love you and I wanted to give back some support you have given me."

How do you come back from the death of a child and ever feel normal again? How do you sit with all of your friends at Ruby Tuesday's for lunch, talking about your children, your life, laughing and talking, when one of your children is no longer living? How do you ever feel 'normal' again. And how in the world can you ever forget the pain and loss, when people like me, keep reminding you that you're different now, and you will never be the same? When the conversation becomes hushed because someone realizes we're laughing about our children and good times, we think you can't, and we change the subject and leave you out.

How does Penny make people understand, she NEEDS to be normal again. She needs to be able to get mad at the child who is still living when he misbehaves without feeling guilty. She needs to be able to have a bad day and lash out at Luke without worrying will those be her last words. She needs to be able to punish Luke when he makes a bad grade or cuts class, without wondering if she's being too hard, just because she can't discipline Gabe anymore. And for goodness sakes, she desperately needs to be able to laugh and talk with all of her friends, re-live the memories she has of Gabe, and the ones she is making with Luke, just like every other Mom at the table in Ruby Tuesday's.  And she needs to be able to give advice, without people begging her pardon for being a burden when asking.

Penny, you have been a gift to us all. And I know you don't want to be that gift all the time. But God picks no one lightly. Whether he's taking them Home or leaving them here. I guess it's not for us to know why he chose Gabe that day. But in turn, he gave you to all of us. All of us mothers with children of whom some days we just can't see the light. All of us mothers, some of whom have also lost children. And all of us mothers, who have reached out to you, for comfort, when their own hero's have been taken home. Mothers who are trying to re-build their lives and need your help.

Forgive me for reminding you that day, of something, some days, you would rather not have to remember. Forgive me for not allowing you to be the wonderful mother you are, and instead making you feel as if you must grieve forever. You are Gabe's mom and you are Luke's mom, always. Please feel free to sit with us any time at Ruby Tuesday's and tell us a funny story, a mad story, or a loving memory story. We would love to have another Mom at our table full of Moms just wanting to be ....a Mom.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Eat, Talk, and Talk Some More

As we sat around the breakfast bar this morning, and I listened to the Sunday morning ramblings, my mind drifted back to the Sunday mornings of long ago.

When I was growing up, both of my parents worked for a living. During the week, no matter how tired my mom was, we almost always had a sit down supper. The stopping for take out food was so rare, I barely even remember it.

Breakfast before school was cereal of some kind, and a nasty chewable vitamin. I ate the cereal and tossed the vitamin to the base of the old pecan tree in our back yard. That tree should live to be a million years old. Saturday mornings were pretty causal for breakfast too, as that was yard and house cleaning day.

Sunday morning breakfast. Now that was a big deal. Whether we all sat down together any other time or not, we sat down together on Sunday mornings. Both my Mama and my Daddy were great cooks, so it alternated who would be the chef each week.  We would have all kinds of different variations of breakfast. My Daddy liked to cook fried eggs, bacon and real cut up french fried potatoes. I believe my Mama's favorite was oatmeal , the real kind, not that one minute box mess, with condensed milk and sugar added in and pattied sausage.

My Daddy was never one for table chitter chatter, but on Sunday mornings, we were allowed to talk a little bit. And when I use the word 'allowed' that's what I mean. Food tables when I was growing up were for eating, not talking.  Weekday supper times, he was tired from his day and there was usually NO talking. And of course absolutely no laughing allowed. Which was always invariably when, I would get a fit of the giggles for one reason or another. Which rarely turned out good for me.

Times change. Or maybe just people change and/or are different. But my eating tables have always been the place to unite. The place for us to talk about what we're going to do today, what we did today, and any major subjects that happen to be the topic of that time. There are no limits set for laughter. As a matter fact, after my hard days at work, I welcome the jokes and laughter. I welcome the diversion from the daily grind.

Sunday morning breakfast in our house, is the best meal of all. We're all rested from the week behind us, our Saturday's of yard work and house work are done, and we've had a good night's rest with a little sleep in time to boot. I cook a big meal and we all sit down together. This morning I cooked oatmeal and pattied sausage for me and Zach, and fried eggs, pattied sausage and toast for Mims. As I watched Zach eat his oatmeal, the thoughts of years ago started rolling though my mind.

As he took his spoon and ran it around the edge of the oatmeal on his plate, I remembered teaching him how to do that when he was a little boy, and the oatmeal was too hot to eat from the middle. Because as my Mama had taught me, the edges were cooler, so take your spoon like a train and go around the edges as you ate.

Our conversation rolled and rolled. Zach has been sick for a few days and he slept a great deal yesterday evening after his work day was done. Got up for a little while last night, and went right back to bed around 10:30 and slept until 10am this morning. His daddy was asking him how in the heck he slept so much. I said he needed it, and Zach barely looking up from his plate, as he was winding his spoon around the outer edges of the oatmeal said, "by shutting my mouth and closing my eyes".  We all busted out laughing, as Mims words came right back to him, just ....that....quick.  We talked about the flooding rains that were surely coming today and whether he had any business riding the roads, because he was asking to go to Matt's today to hang out. 

The breakfast dishes are done, his bed has been made, and he's on his way to Matt's now, with the promise of a call once he gets there. Because it is indeed, flooding rain.  I believe in family meals. I believe in talk and laughter at the table. And for the nights I am just too tired or my mouth has run out of words, I still love listening to Zach's chatter about his rougher than usual football practices, the crazy chemistry experiments, the new boy named Tom he tagged with the nickname Penutt (spelled wrong on purpose he says), something funny Andy "Tater" Taylor said,  and what he thinks is making his truck make that weird sound.

Cherish those time folks. Cherish the good food we can afford to eat and the good times we must afford to spend with our loved ones. Whoever they are, your kids if they are still at home, or your spouse, if everyone else is gone and scattered. Don't lose yourselves in silence and call it comfortable. Taking the time to make conversation is taking the time to show your interest and love. And we all want to know, that what we have to say and how we feel, is something someone is waiting to hear.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Never Accept No When Nothing But Yes Will Do

The story you are about to read is a true story. Well, all my stories are true stories. But this story is about never giving up. Never backing down. Fighting for what you believe in. And if it means enough, not taking no for an answer.

When I was in high school, my Daddy set out to teach me about sports. The ins and outs, the rules, and the sports 'speak'.   His mantra was, no matter what type of job you maybe have as an adult, if you knew and understood sports, you could stand in any group and hold your own in a conversation. And there it was, how I was to spend every weekend, the year I turned fifteen years old.

I fought it tooth and nail. But he was relentless. So as any smart person would, to make myself feel good about it, at the beginning of the season, I picked a team to follow. The first sport was baseball, and I picked the New York Yankees. Catfish Hunter was the pitcher and he was awesome. Reggie Jackson was Mr. October, and we went to the World Series that year. The same year their catcher, Thurman Munson, was killed in a helicopter accident during the playoffs. Everyone wore black arm bands in memory during the series. They played Steve Garvey, Ron Cey and the Los Angeles Dodgers, and the Yankees won the World Series that year. Ok Baseball, I was hooked.

Football season came along, and I picked Roger Staubach and the Dallas Cowboys. They played the Pittsburgh Steelers and Mean Joe Greene in the Super Bowl and lost. I cried. But again, I was hooked, this time on Football.

My dad was not a big basketball fan, so I was not force fed that sport. To this day, it's not particularly one of my favorites. I understand it, and I played it in Jr High, but that is as far as my interest goes.

Now to really understand my love for sports, you would have had to have lived with my Daddy, David Mount. We are not fit for public fans. We scream, we holler, and we stand in front of the television flailing our arms, do a lot of name calling, a little trash talking, grabbing the sides of our heads, banging on armchairs, and stomping our feet. Ranting plays to the coaches on the screen and threatening referees as if they can hear us. We are a mighty loud and rowdy bunch and more times than not, wore slap out once the game is over. Not to mention the restraint that is necessary when we are in public and cheering for our favorite teams.  That's still a work in progress.

The cooler weather weekends were filled with crock pots of homemade chili, homemade soups and stews, plenty of hot dogs, grilled cheese sandwiches, fried hamburgers and all the other foods that go with weekends filled with sports.

As the years would pass, I never missed a Super Bowl or a World Series. Even if my team was not present, I would pick a team through the playoffs and follow them to the end. Cheering them on as if they were my pick from the beginning of the season. You have to do that don't you? You can't not watch the World Series or the Super Bowl just because you're team isn't playing..right?

When I moved to Quincy Florida, I moved into a beautiful old country house outside of the city limits. Which meant, no cable for me. Satellite would be necessary. I had my service with Dish Network hooked up the second week I was here so my kids could get the Disney Channel. First crisis over.

Sometime into about my fourth year living here, Dish sent out a letter stating some of the users would be losing service to certain stations due to regulated laws. I didn't pay much attention to my letter, because in my mind, I had no choice. Cable lines were not coming to my area anytime soon.  Well, evidently, somebody at Dish Network thought I had a choice and they removed some of my major access channels.

I came home one week before the playoffs for the World Series was to start, with no Fox Channel. And my Yankees were in the playoffs. On the Fox Channel. This was not going to work. I started with the normal calls you would make, to Dish Network and such. Talked to about 42 people with no positive results. I told them they could not include people like me in their "sweep" as they called it, because I did not choose to NOT have cable, I could not GET cable. And to penalize me was unfair. By the time I got to person number 42, I was ranting about the World Series, how I had never missed one and I was not starting now.

Somewhere during mid rant, the Dish Representative stopped me. Now,  I am into the next week by this time. The playoffs have started and I am watching them from my then boyfriend, now husbands house every night. The representative, tired of hearing me, said, if I could get the cable representative from the local television station in Tallahassee to write a letter stating cable was not available for me in my area they would reinstate those channels. Finally, someone is listening to me!

After another deluge of calls and speaking to person after person, I was finally was hooked up with the VP of the local station in Tallahassee. He listened to my story and half way though, HE stopped me. He asked me what team I was pulling for in the Playoffs and World Series. Well now, I wondered if this was a trick question, and if I answered it wrong, would I be out of help for good.  I buckled down and answered the very Southern sounding man (as was I ) and told him the New York Yankees. He said, well, that's good and bad news. Too bad, that's your team, because they aren't going to win, and good , that you're a loyal enough fan to admit they're your team anyway.


He agreed to write the letter and send it to Dish. The next night, Dish was calling me to walk me through my hook-up and reboot of the Fox network, and I was able to watch Game Three of the playoffs in my own home forty minutes into the game.  I was whooping and hollering...and of course my kids thought I had lost my mind.

My daddy always taught me, you can do anything and get anything if you want it bad enough. But you have to believe in your cause enough to see it to the end.

I live in the city now, so cable is not a problem. My favorite seasons are beginning, baseball is headed towards the playoffs and football is just beginning. The only fight on my hands now, is who gets to hold the remote, and who watches what on the big TV, and who goes to the bedroom to watch the smaller one. I'm pretty easy, I could care less, just as long as I get to see the World Series and the Super Bowl from one television or another in my own home, and not the neighbors house down the street.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Big Girls Do Cry....Mascara

Today was just one of those days. One of those days, that as soon as it started to turn in the wrong direction, I should have heeded the signs. I should have paid attention. I should have known it could only get worse. Hell, I should have turned my truck around on a dime and came back home. At 7:43am. Because that is when it started.

I'm driving to work, and this morning seemed no different than any other. The roads are starting to pick up with traffic. People bustling around, trying to get to work. I remember a call I need to make. To try once more to reach someone who had been unreachable up to that point.

I pull my cell phone out of my purse. Dial the number. It begins to ring, and she answers. I'm talking, she's talking, and suddenly it feels like someone has set my left eye on fire. I put my finger to my eye. I have no idea why. It's what comes natural when your eye feels as it's ablaze. Surprise. THAT makes it worse. Now both eyes are burning, why in the heck that is I don't know, and I'm blinking as hard and fast as my eyes will open and shut. My eyes are now POURING water, I'm still trying to talk, and alternately scrambling for a tissue. Guess what? No tissue. No nothing. My eyes are now burning, I am still on the phone, no longer really listening, operating on remote speak. Yes, no, uh huh.

Finally I pull into work. I think. I can barely see. I finish the call. I stumble out of my truck, fumbling for the door knob to get inside the building. I stumble two doors down to my office, sling all my stuff in the floor, (cell phone, purse, and soda) and flail around on top of my desk like a blind man, looking for my box of tissue. I find it, run back out the door, to the bathroom two doors back down the hall, go in and slam the door shut. I fumble for the light, turn it on and begin to try and wipe my eyes. At this point, I am now standing in front of the mirror. And my whole face is bleeding black liquid. My eyes have melted mascara ALL OVER MY FACE. By the looks of my face there is none left on my lashes. I stand there and look at the horrible sight I have become. Knowing, whoever passed me on Hwy 90 and sat by me at the red light, has already seen the same.

I wash my now, barren of makeup face, and go back to my office. I sit down in my chair and try to catch my breath.

I have often heard, and thought myself, that a woman who is in her very private PMS mode, should never be exposed to the public. I think there should be enough vacation/sick days in the year allowed for these said days. We should not even be allowed outside of our homes. I have had several experiences in my life that have proven that theory to be true. Today was another one of those days. Because though all of the above sounds like quite enough, it was not over. Oh no. This day of hell, of PMS hell, had just begun.

At 8:50 Mims calls me. I'm getting up from my desk when the phone rings. I have had several phone calls in a row. Enough calls that have prevented me from yet, having my first cup of coffee, when he catches me trying to go get a cup. I sit back down. He begins to tell me the plan for getting my two new truck tires put on my truck today.

Now, even though I have had no coffee yet, my alarms are going off as he begins his "this is going to be the deal" conversation. My alarms are going off, because I can't quite figure out why I need to know about this deal. The last time this DEAL was discussed, he was taking care of everything. So why do I need to now know about this deal.

I'll tell you why, because NOW, I AM GOING TO TAKE CARE OF THIS DEAL. He's telling me. I am silent. Listening. To the new deal. I'm going to take the truck to the place to get the tires put on, and I am going to "catch a ride back" with a complete stranger. Well no, no I am not. I tell him, you have known me for 13 years now. I do not like to go to those places, because I do not like trying to explain to "car people" what needs to be done. And I do NOT ride back from anywhere with car people (men) strangers. Trying to make small talk for four miles. NO.

Now before all you ladies of hard working blue collar men, get all up tight or defensive, let me say this.....my husband has the same type of job. He works harder than anyone I know. He builds/inspects roof joist for a living. But I'm not gonna ride back to any destination with just any ole' roof joist building man stranger either. So, I arrange for a co-worker to follow me so that I have a ride.

I take the truck to the Chevrolet place, I get out, I talk to the girl at the counter and explain what I want. What Mims has already supposed to have explained. I am simply refreshing. She acts as if she has no idea what I'm talking about, but is willing to get it done. I  call Mims, leave him a message, that he might want to call and reiterate and why. Just in case.

We are at Pizza Hut. My cell phone rings. It's Mims. He is laughing. I still, am not. He says, why did you take your truck to the Chevrolet place?  I laid my fork down, and slowly said, why would I not? And he said, the girl at the counter didn't know what you were talking about, because you were supposed to take the truck to W & L Tire.

I am not going to tell you everything else that was said. It was not nice, it was not clean, and I should probably be ashamed. I'm not.

At 3pm this afternoon, Mims called to check on me. I guess he thought I had already had enough time to cool off. Or run out of steam. He asked was I OK, I said yes. And this is what I told him :

"I want you to listen to me and understand me. From now until the end of time, or unless you are physically incapacitated,  you will take care of ALL vehicle duties. I wash all the clothes, cook all the meals, do most of the cleaning, make sure you have your prescriptions filled, and make all your doctor appointments and remind you when to be where. You can take care of the vehicle duties. I will know nothing about it. And when I get home, my truck will be miraculously fixed and it will feel just as if Santa Claus came and Christmas was early. Are we clear?"  He wisely said, " Yes, baby".

This day is almost over. I am praying tomorrow goes better. And if I get even the tiniest inkling in the morning, that it may not, I AM coming back home, locking my doors, and waiting until I can feel the crazy pass over me. 

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims