AFRIDIGIDIVA

My Wiccan friends call it “The Phase of the Wise Woman”.  Every culture has some form of acknowledgement of the stages of womanhood — Most refer to it as The Maiden, The Mother and The Crone. I haven’t been a maiden in a long, long time.  And now I am discovering as my personal summers increase and my moon phases decrease that I am slowly entering the Crone phase of my life. I’m not sure I like that idea or that term. 

My daughters (three of whom are really just beginning the “Mother” phase) have jested that this means for me is that I can stop worrying about the hair on my legs and start shaving my mustache and chin.  Yeah, I didn’t think it was funny either.  I guess this is where the Wise Woman phase kicks in.  I laugh at them because I KNOW that one day, in the not so distant future, if God blesses them to continually wake up one day at a time that they too, will be in this phase.   And ladies it comes fast. One minute, you’re child-proofing your house, the next you’re taking PremPro.

In some cultures, it is the responsibility of the “older women” to take the younger men and teach them all that they need to know for those years when they are seeking maidens to make mothers.  I’m assuming that there has to be at least a ten year age difference, so Brad Pitt, I’m sorry, I can’t help you now.  But I do have a list.  Michael Ealy, Wentworth Miller, Justin Timberlake, Colin Farrell, Orlando Bloom and Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Gentlemen, have your people call my people.

For those that are still in the Mother phase, let me tell you this before you gloat with your ovaries popping out potential offspring on a regular basis–  while I loved that phase of my life, just as I loved the Maiden phase of high school and some of college where my major worry was a deadline for a research paper, there are parts that I don’t miss, won’t miss and laugh because you’re going to go through things that you have thought about.  I’ll expound…

1. Sleep deprivation.  I was informed, after receiving a rocking chair for Eid, that it is more than acceptable for me to sit on my porch with a wonderful glass of tea and take naps. I can go to bed in the middle of the day and stay there all day if I want.  I can sleep, rest, relax, chillax.  Pick a word, I can do it!

2. T-Shirts and sweats.  I’ll still wear them, but guess what? My breasts are no longer double-D’s with an appendage that cries when they can’t get to them. I don’t have to worry about milk spewing down the front of my shirt, onto my pants and just all over the place.  (Those that bottle-fed have no idea!)  My husband has a t-shirt that says “Breasts are like toy trains. They are made for the kids, but usually the dad plays with them.” My husband and I will test this theory often.

3. Diaper changes.  OMG, there are some smells that emanate from the hind end of the most adorable babies that give new meaning to “dirty bombs”.  I don’t even have those kinds of smells! And often they eat the same things that adults do and we don’t smell like that. 

4.  Potty-training.  Keep it for yourselves! My daughters bring my grands to me and come to me for advice because they don’t know how they were potty trained.  The newly burgeoning Wise Woman in me will give you the secret: hardwood/linoleum floors, bare bottoms and a good mop. Disinfectant helps too, especially if you have stair-steps.

5.  Coitus interruptus.  Okay, if you don’t have locks on your doors and you do have toddlers, please get locks on your doors. Put a chair in front of it.  Those who haven’t done these things can tell you why.  My oldest claims that she had to go to therapy in her early 20s because she had boundary issues at three.  Just remember that there are some things you just can’t unsee.  In fact, I still have that image of my parents in the middle of the afternoon on a day when I was out of school and supposed to be outdoors playing but I saw my dad’s car in the driveway and wanted to play with him. Daddy’s little girl learned that dad had a big girl too.  Anyway, I think I’m still traumatized.

There are so many things that I have to look forward to now.  I’m not saddled with chasing children,  play dates, Gerber, potty-training and Garanimals.   I can finish some books, sew for pleasure, watch more than Beyond the Lions and Sesame Street.  My husband and I can extend date night to weekend excursions, think two-seater convertible Chevy Corvette. Oh my goodness, I just thought about no car seats, strollers, diaper bags, toy bags.  Hubby will be able to walk barefoot in the house without fear of lockjaw because he stepped on toy cars or train set tracks.

I am in good company now. Tina Turner. Cher, Goldie Hawn, Susan Sarandon, Ivana Trump, Jamie Lee Curtis. We are all wise women.  We don’t have to sit in rockers and smell like Ben Gay.  We are active and we get to do all the things we dreamed about.  The world is ours!

So laugh you Maidens and Mothers!  I can do the happy dance while screaming like somebody just learning about the end of slavery. I AM FREE!! I’M FREE!!

PEACE!
ADD

In April of 2012, if all goes well and our son actually lives through his teen years to reach 18, my husband and I will break open the Welch’s Sparkling Grapejuice, pour generously into our champagne flutes and begin the celebration of a lifetime.  All of our children, the ones that we lovingly raised, homeschooled, gave home training, paid for college, sacrificed — the last one will be kicked out of the nest.

Hopefully he will have earned his  Eagle Scout rank by then and I think it’s apros pro that we will treat him as eagles treat their young.  We will kick him out of the nest. If he takes flight, good deal; if not then oh well we tried. Now in fairness, we’re not just going to throw our only son and youngest child to the wolves.  We plan on giving him adequate provisions to last perhaps 6 months.  Among these are his first semester of college, his furnishings that he’s accumulated over 18 years and his clothes (except for that oversized FUBU shirt that I look really good wearing).

I’m bringing this up now because I ventured past his room this morning and the  smell emanating from there was just putrid.  A combination of AXE, Irish Spring, dirty socks and boy funk.  Serious boy funk. And toe jam or corn chips. I’ve been trying to get this smell out of my nose all day. My eyes watered. I think my dreds stood on end.  Is it just a boy thing?  Our daughter’s room smells like lilac and roses with a little Febreze mized in for good measure.  Her bed is always made, clothes in the hamper, dust bunnies gone.  All of our daughters were this way.  Clean, quiet, fresh.   But this son of ours. Whew! He makes me wanna holla.

I dared to open his door, grabbing my camera first. I think there are pueblos in Afghanistan that look better. I don’t know where his bed is. I see pieces of a carpet, but I’m not sure. And I thnk something other than him moved. The iguana has disappeared. A hamster is not in his cage.  I found my punchbowl near the door that I had to pry open.  I’m afraid to open the closet door.   This must be a boy thing.  I’m expecting a CSi truck to pull up any minute and start putting crime scene tape around the house.  I did take pictures.  Trevour is in negotiations in the hopes that I won’t expose this science project, biohazard depository. But I do have artwork.  I expect to find  Elvis or Tupac any day now, crawling from beneath a pile of God only knows what.

My son has stated that he wants to go to college locally so that he can live at home.  Ya ALLAH, please tell me that this is some sort of joke, some cruel joke. prank.  Didn’t he learn anything from the story about the mama eagles and their babies?  Learn to fly, boy! 

PEACE!
ADD

Neither me or my husband are electricians. This is why last week we dropped a cool grand on the wonderful young man who owns his own business as an electrictian. We had him replace elctrical fixtures, rewire a great majority of our hose, install an electric water heater, three ceiling fans, two porch lanterns (that ensure my yard can be seen from Hubble) and a few other issues that we thought we could do on our own, but decided that he was much better equipped and certainly more knowledgeable.

So today, much to my surprise, when I turned on my coffee pot, there was a snap, crackle and pop! Aside from scaring the bejeezus out of me as well as a couple of bodily fluids, the circuit tripping didn’t do much damage. Fortunately, my computer wasn’t on that line since I was blogging to you nice folks. I screamed just short of loud enough to wake the neighbors. I wanted to make sure that I was 1. still alive and 2. not being electrocuted. Hubby came running into the kitchen, yelling. Couldn’t find his jammy bottoms so he threw on my caftan. Imagine, 6′2″ blonde blue-eyed, full beard and flowing locks in an African print caftan. Yeah you would have laughed until your side hurt, you couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t stop the flow of tears. At least that’s what I did. Hubby was not happy to kearn that my attention had shifted from the tripped circuit to his choice of ensembles. Surely there were jeans somewhere that he could have grabbed. Laughter subsides, I look through my rolodex (yes I still use one because everything can’t rely on modern science) and find the number for B-Electric. Hubby, remembering his hourly rate-one hour minimum, was adamant with a negative. Okay, no electrician. The only other option is that we do it ourselves. Did I mention that we’re not electricians? Did I mention that we’re both lucky to be alive after our attempts at repairing simple things like switches and fixxtures?

I grab the extra outlets and off to the job we went. Even though the circuit was already off, I stood a reasonable distance away while hubby tried to repair the fixture.   Will’s hands are too big to fit the intricate workings so he volunteers ME.  YEAH RIGHT.  I tried convincing him that I didn’t need a coffeepot. or that outlet.  Did I mention that we aren’t electricians?

By now the children are standing in the doorway, confused about why Dad has on my caftan and certain that this is some sort of kinky sex thing that old people do when they think the kids aren’t around.  So once again, I explain that the coffee pot was on, tripped a circuir, dad heard me scream and  the first thing he could find.  (Yes, the attempts to hold back the laughter were humorous.) So Dad goes back to trying to fix the circuit.  Son gets the idea that the reason there is something wrong with the outlet is because it’s not getting any power. He makes for the circuit breaker.  Oh God, thank goodness we stopped him before he could flip the switch.  (Although I must confess, for a split second, the thought of how much hubby’s insurance policy was worth and how I could grieve just as easily in Tahiti as I could here in Oklahoma,)

Ours is not a new house and there are add-ons and upgrades  that were done in ways that would boggle the best of minds.  The electrical lines are just janky.  Everything is this moneypit is janky.  So here’s what I did because I am the only one in my house with any sense, apparently.

I called the electrician. He came out, upgraded the wiring and circuitry.  He put CGI plugs over all the water fixtures.   I got a new coffeemaker.  And hubby paid the bill.

Now why couldn’t he have done that in the first place??  Men!

PEACE!
ADD

Guess what I got in the mail! Yup it came today and at first I was a little happy about it.  But then it occured to me that next year I will have to include this “stimulus”  on my tax return as extra income.   We are already teetering on the edge of being in a new tax bracket and this just doesn’t seem right.

Okay, I didn’t do what the Prez wanted us to do with the cash.  The economy is not going to get any better if I blow $1200 bucks at Macy’s (which is easy to do when you spend all your time at the jewelry department).  The DIVA was practical this time.  I paid bills. Paid ahead on some, brought down balances on others.  Alright, I did splurge a tad. I bought ice cream.  Lots and lots of ice cream. Blue Bunny, Ben&Jerry’s, Hagen Daaz…  Don’t ask me why, I have no intention of eating it.  (Well perhaps I’ll take a bite or two of the  triple chocoate decadence.)   My weightloss continues.  I’m almost at my target weight.   And I haven’t been sticking to that meal plan.

Speaking of mealplans… Let’s not kid ourselves. It’s a diet. All of that word association is just not cutting it. Call it what it is — A DIET. 1400 calories A DAY. A crackhead gets more calories than that. I think my doctor who I just adore was on drugs that day. He was certainly on something good. 1400 calories A DAY. Not per meal (which to me would be more plausible.

So as if a news alert needed to be issued- The Stimulus package didn’t do anything. Once again, I’m not impressed. Remember the first time the President forced us to take an advance on our tax return whether we wanted it or not? Okay, I won’t bring up the past. I will say that I wasn’t impressed with that brainstorm either.

This alledged stimulus check is a diversion. I’m not falling for it. Forget that gas prices are off the chain and that you have to choose between filling your tank and paying your mortgage. Oh yeah, forget that mortgage companies are snatching folks houses over four cents. Send me money and divert my attention from rising health care costs, prescription coverage that’s nonexistant. Send me money, wave a couple hundred bucks in my face and help me forget that my nephew, son in law, daughter and several children of my friends are in foreign countries dodging bullets, fighting for people who don’t want us there.

In light of the current economic circumstances, I’m so unimpressed that it’s just well…..
What’s that saying? This is akin to putting a bandaid on an amputation.

How about you keep the Stimulus and give me a government that works?

PEACE!
ADD