Apple or Cherry?

Today started out as most Sundays of late. Being my one and only day off each week, I slept in, ate breakfast in bed which had been made by my eldest grandchild and then sipped coffee, also in bed, while I read through emails, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Blogs, etc. Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a fabulous life, thank you!

Then it happened. The phone rang and I got the news that, yet again, one of the Hansen men had put forth their opinion of someone they had never met for all the world to hear. Seems this particular event involved making fun of someone else’s life’s work. Let me explain about Hansen men.

Hansen dudes are gorgeous and smart and funny and amazingly talented in so many ways. Seriously, as a woman who has been happily conjoined to one for forty years, I can honestly say, they are awesome! Having said that, I must confess they all seem to have one small flaw and that is the art of making fun of strangers at the expense of, well, strangers. I cannot count the bazillions of times I have made the statement, “It’s not fun or funny unless it’s fun and funny to the person being made fun of.” Ok, I may have added, “You morons!” at the end of that statement each of the bazillion times but come on already, wise up.

Seriously, if you ever had the privilege of meeting a Hansen man you would remember it as a pleasant experience. The first line of this breed, that I knew anyway, was my father-in-law. He was one of the funniest guys around. Always ready with a punch line. The guy was ridiculously funny except for one small flaw. He made fun of people he didn’t know in a way that was quite unfunny in my opinion. I mean, come on, anyone that reads this blog knows that I have answered the calling to make fun of people including myself, my sisters, my husband and children, the people I work with and for, etc. The difference is, I do it to their faces, in public and I know them. So really, I am not actually making fun of them but rather pointing out the truth that they already know. It’s my small way of offering joy to the world in sharing the lives of those I love. Thank you and you’re welcome.

Ok, maybe what I do is not completely different but that’s not the point. The point is, when you make fun of people behind their backs it’s mean and they have no chance to defend themselves and it makes you look like a boob. Yeah, I said it. A boob! Maybe that’s why all you Hansen men seem to choose full breasted women, because you are all boobs yourself. Yeah, you heard me!

What if I didn’t know you perfect Hansen men and I decided to point out some of your “flaws”? Huh, how about that?  “What flaws?” you ask. Exactly! There’s the first one. Oh yeah, I have a whole list of things I could embarrass you people with. That’s right, I called you, you people, just like my dad use to call us girls when he was at the point of complete disgust with our shenanigans.

Speaking of shenanigans, how would you like it if I made public some of yours for others to laugh at? I mean, I would only be trying to be funny, right? Seriously, how would you feel if I told people how one of you is unable to jump on a trampoline without peeing their pants? Ok, that might be me but if it was one of you, how would you like the world to know that? Huh, funny men? Maybe I should tell people the awesome story of farting so loud in church that we had to change churches, or towing your car out of the ditch with the door open which resulted in the door hitting a pole and being ripped right off the hinges or having to go to school with only socks on all day because you forgot to put shoes on. Shall I go on? How would you like people to know you were booted from first grade for starting the dirty word club? I mean, really, who are you people and how did I get involved with you?

My advice, shut those pie holes unless you have something nice to say. Or, you are making fun of your sisters.

True Dat

There is this weird thing on Facebook called Truths About You or some such thing. Even though I am rarely on FB these days, it seems every time I do stop in to see what's shaking, there is some new "truth" about me on my page. I guess my FB friends play the game, or app, or whatever the stupid thing is called and tell the "truth" about me. So today, I decided to read through all the "truths" as told by my "friends" and guess what? You people don't know me at all!!

Do you think that Marla Hansen needs to lose weight? No

Um, seriously? Has this person never met me? I mean in real life. Even if they are just one of my cyber-stalkers, have they never flipped through the multitude of online photographic evidence proving my point that this answer is ridiculous at best? Did they think the truth vs. the “truth” would damage my psyche forever? Are they under the assumption mirrors have not made it by mule train to Oklahoma as of yet? Were they trying to say they loved me regardless of my tonnage therefore they saw me, in their mind’s eye at least, at an acceptable weight, making it possible for them to answer, “Marla? Hefty? Who are you kidding? The girl is super model svelte!”

Does Marla Hansen need to lose weight?

Ok, this photo is so 20 pounds ago, but still. I rest my fat ass case. Hey, somebody needed to tell the truth before my sisters did. Amen and amen.

　
Do you think that Marla Hansen owns a nice car? Yes

Again, who are you people? I haven’t owned a nice car since 1976 when I sold my Mustang. Why would I sell my dark burgundy Mustang with black leather interior and the awesome engine that said, “VROOM!! VROOM!!” after I married? Because I wanted babies. Lots and lots of babies. I wanted babies and station wagons filled with strollers and diaper bags and fishy crackers. Wait, not fishy crackers because at that time I was an earth mama so I probably was thinking more along the lines of comfort when I pulled over in my mama mobile to nurse my multitude of offspring someday. Anyway, thirty-six years later, what am I driving?



Oh sure the kids are gone but they have been replaced by grandkids. Buh bye hopes of having a nice car someday. So long dreams of a two-seater filled with only me and my boyfriend I’m married to as we drive along the coast, drinking wine and eating cheese at wineries along the way. Nevermore, Vroom Vroom. Nevermore.

　

Do you think that Marla Hansen is selfish? No

This one is a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, I am extremely unselfish. I will give you my last dime, my time, my possessions or my last drop of blood if you need it. On the other hand, the one holding the Snickers, I have been known to lock myself in the bathroom so I don’t have to share. See? Conundrum.

　

Do you think that Marla Hansen would go Bungee Jumping? No


This person knows me! I would NEVER go bungee jumping, or sky diving or alligator hunting or shopping on Rodeo Drive. All much too scary for this Redneck girl. Now, I will say this, in my younger days, I have been known to jump off of my parents cabana roof into our swimming pool to impress a boy. I was also know to jump off the Cayucos pier to impress a boy. Oh and I did ride a motorcycle and later a go-cart into a fence and yes there were boys involved in those events as well. The biggest jump I ever took was thirty-six years ago. I jumped head first into marriage at eighteen years old. Again, there was a boy involved.

　

Oh, there’s more………

Conversations From Cell Block C

So guess where I am? Seriously, go ahead and guess. If you said prison, you wouldn’t be too far off. I am back in Houston at MDAnderson with the two wicked step-sisters. You would think they would be so thankful at my willingness to give up all my vacation time for them. Then there is the eight hour drive south not to mention dealing with the maniac drivers trying to kill me because 80 mph is obviously not fast enough in the middle lane. I suppose there is no better way to show you their extent of gratefulness than to post actual conversations from Cell Block C.


Kelly, sobbing pitifully this morning as Char and I were helping her out of the shower, drying her off, getting her into her wheelchair:

“I….(sob, sob)…..I bet you two never thought you would have to do this for me…..(sob, sob, sob)”

“Well, I always figured I would be doing this…..for Char…..in the very near future, considering her age and all.”

“Idiot.”

This seems to be Char’s new go-to word. Idiot. How original, I mean, for an old person and all.



Then there was last night when Kelly started sobbing, hoping to die in bed in the arms of her beloved. I asked if her husband David knew about being replaced by someone named beloved. I was called names and on and on followed by this little gem:

“Well, Kel, I understand even if our idiot sister doesn’t. I want to die in my sleep”, says Char in her best all-knowing, I am the oldest sister sort of way.

So, says I, “I can respect you wanting to die in your sleep. I’d be happy to make that happen for you both later this evening.”

I cannot repeat the new name Char came up with to replace idiot. I will say this; who knew the old bat could be so linguistically creative.


Of course, we always have to have the hair and makeup conversations when we are together too.

“Hey you guys, will one of you please trim my hair?”

“Trim your hair? What’s wrong with your hair?”

“I just got it cut and she did a really bad job. I need you or Char to fix it, ok?”

At this point, the two princess imposters are looking over my hair and decide it looks fine.

“Listen you two, have you ever known me to care a lick about how my hair looks. If I say it’s bad, I mean….”

“Char, she has a point. We must just be use to that look on her. Get the scissors.”


Anyway, that’s about all there is until later. Kelly is going through poking, prodding, CT Scans and MRIs. We have seen the internal medicine doctor already and will finish up on Thursday with the Oncologists and Surgeons. Kel is hoping for surgery to get the baseball size tumor protruding from the back of her head whacked off. I am hoping for a better haircut before then.


Love hopes all things.

Girls Just Want To Have Fun

When I reached my thirtieth birthday, I was elated. Absolutely giddy, I tell you. I could not believe my good fortune. I found the very thought of reaching my thirties to be a miracle. I am pretty sure I heard angels singing that day. No, seriously. I was in love with being three decades old. I couldn’t understand why so many people I loved had shuttered for months before their thirtieth arrived. You would have thought body parts were destined to fall off on their thirtieth birthdays. I just didn’t get it. I remembered my tenth and twentieth birthdays being pivotal. Thirty was all that and more.

Approaching my fortieth birthday, I felt a sense of awe and wonder. How could I, being the complete moron I am known to be, have reached such a spectacular age? Women in their forties were beautiful, smart and oozed awesomeness from my perspective. To join that club was amazing. I mean seriously, how lucky was I to be forty and still feel like I did at twenty? Maybe my body looked older but my brain still said I was all that and a side order of fries.

Fifty. Seriously, I cried like a baby when I turned fifty. There was a deep, spiritual, overwhelming cloak of sacredness that fell from the heavens and covered my very being on that day. I looked in the mirror, watching the tears flowing down my cheeks and thanked God for this amazing time in my life. I was fifty. I had made it half way to my hundredth birthday. I had lived an amazing life so far. I was blessed beyond belief with a family that loved me and friends that stood by me. What more could I hope for? I was sure I would reach a state of Nirvana when I hit sixty because the decade birthdays for me had always been so freaking inspiring.

Then I turned fifty-four a few months ago. What? The? Hell? All of a sudden I have no direction in my life. I say whatever comes into my brain including letting strangers know what I think of their rude and ridiculous public displays of poor upbringing. My few stray gray hairs that I have always prided myself in honestly earning have sprouted friends. My oath to never curl up and dye is now being tested. Hair has stopped appearing where I need it to appear and has begun to proliferate in areas that will surely earn me a spot in the circus. I’m talking the main tent attraction here. My body, though never much to brag about, has now become something people would definitely find much to talk about. I need braless days at home now and then. Girls need to breathe once in awhile however the thought of tripping over them has become a real issue at fifty-four. And falling, lets talk about falling. Can I even begin to tell you how many times I have fallen lately? And this without drugs, alcohol or rock concerts involved. I mean, I am walking along and all of a sudden my legs yell up to my brain, “Trip her!!” and down I go. Of course, then all I can think about is yelling, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”, because, dammit to hell, I am the same stinking age as that damn woman in the commercial. Dammit! My mother loved that word. Dammit. And now I am using it. I am officially my mother. I am old.

So here I am at fifty stinking four, with a husband that would surely like to have sex again someday. With me, I am pretty sure. The problem is, we are both working ridiculous retail hours that leave us worn to a frazzle by the time we get home around ten every night. Losing his job at fifty stinking eight was not a part of our retirement plan. Working retail to pay our house payment was not a part of the plan either. Never having sex again must be factored into this current equation. Sex seems to be a recurring theme in my last two posts. Who knew this was such an important part of old people’s lives?

Anyway, hard decisions are about to be made. We want to have a life worth living again. We want to see our grandchildren, have dinner with friends, go camping, take in homeless people. We would like to travel someday and I mean further than to work and back. We would like to have sex.

Do we sell everything, kiss our sweet horses, chickens and piggy goodbye and move into a small house somewhere? Do we stay in Oklahoma? Do we head somewhere else? Anywhere else than where we are now, working ninety hours a week? This does not feel like living. This feels like death grip survival mode. I am pretty sure we are both just about ready to see the end of this debacle. All I know is I am fifty stinking four and there is suddenly less time in front of me than behind me. I have things I want to do, places to go, people to see.

God help me if I make it to sixty!

So Shoot Me

Can you believe this? An actual post from the long, lost blogger. You did notice I was long lost, right? Anyway, I am suppose to be at a team builder right now. You know, the kind where all the managers from your company get together and learn to work as a mean, lean, dream team. Yeah, one of those. This incredible team building opportunity involved getting shot by paintballs. Awesomeness, I know. I mean seriously, nothing could ever make me want to be a part of a team more than running away from grown men in masks who are trying to shoot me. For four hours. In 90 degree weather. I was a complete fool to bug out on this one and I am sure I will regret missing the opportunity to be covered with welts. Someday. But not today. Nope, today right after the P & L meeting, on my way to the “team builder”, I made an executive decision. I sure did. I grabbed some lunch which I ate all by myself without having to answer a phone, help a customer or take hours to finish because of all the Hey Marla’s. It was lovely. Then I got my hair whacked off by a darling young woman who didn’t talk my ear off but simply pampered me. I even got some waxing done because seriously, who in their right mind would walk around with giant scrub brush eyebrows after getting a new whack-a-doo. Not me. Then I jumped in my car and headed to the paintball field figuring I was only 90 minutes late and since I am the oldest team member, they would forgive my tardiness. That’s when I realized I had to drive right by the road that leads to my house to get to the paintball field and well, the car just seemed to have a mind of its own. So here I am. So shoot me.

Speaking of people wanting to shoot me, I will be seeing my sisters in a few weeks. Yep, we are heading back to Houston for the next round of MDAnderson Jeopardy. I believe Kelly will be choosing brain surgery for the 8^th time, Alex. What that girl will do for attention. Sheesh! All in all, her spirits are good and she is facing it one day at a time. I truly have no clue how she does it. I mean, other than the heavy narcotics and such. She is quite the amazing specimen of true grit and determination. The plan is to meet in Houston, see what McDreamy has to say about surgery and then possibly head back to Oklahoma for a few weeks until the actual surgery date approaches. You know what that means. Lots of laughing, lots of fighting, probable crying with a side of hissy fits thrown in. Yeah, it’s never boring when we get together. All I know is I am getting tired of all this brain surgery crap. Oh sure, there has been a hip replacement here and a back surgery there but seriously. Enough already. Can’t we just go shopping?

Talking about Kelly possibly coming to my house for a few weeks reminded me of something that happened last time she was here. It was a few years ago. I had spent a few months in the hospital with her while she went through her hip surgery and rehabilitation. Then she came back to Oklahoma for a few more months so we could care for her as she went through learning to use her new bionic features. To say this was an incredibly difficult and painful time for Kel would be a massive understatement. It was so painful in fact that she was heavily sedated much of the time like at bedtime. There was no other way for her to sleep but to spend a good thirty minutes positioning her body just so with pillows and rolled up blankets and then knocking her out with the good stuff. I mean, like a sledgehammer to the back of the head good stuff. It was awesome to hear her snore because it meant no pain at least for a little while. Now, she would wake up periodically throughout the night and reach over to make sure I was there. Sometimes she would even ask for something like a readjustment or another pain med. More than anything, I am pretty sure she just wanted to know I was there. It seemed to bring her comfort.

Anyway, my cousin Cher came to visit during that time. Kelly and I were sleeping in my room, Cher had the back studio and poor Bob was banished to the 5^th wheel out  by the barn. One night after Kelly was in bed and Bob had walked out to the trailer, Cher asked me when the last time was that Bob and I had been able to ….um….well….be friendly. I had to think about it for a minute before answering with, “I seriously can’t remember. Months, I’m sure.” That’s when Cher came up with the dastardly plan. It was awesome. We planned, plotted and giggled like two Catholic schoolgirls gone bad. We worked out all the kinks and settled on the following night as “Operation Love Shack.”

We went through the next day not saying a word to anyone but giggling every time we looked at each other. I mean seriously, it was just like when we were teenagers hanging out together, plotting evil. Not that we ever did that. But if we had it would have been just like that. That night, I got Kelly settled in bed, drugged to the appropriate knock her out just don’t kill her level and then climbed into bed to watch TV with her until we fell asleep. Just our usual routine, folks. Nothing to see here, just move along.

As soon as Cher heard Kelly snoring, she snuck into our room where I carefully slithered out of the bed as Cher carefully slithered into the bed. I quietly crept my flannel PJs over lingerie self to the back door and made my escape. I ran through the yard towards the barn, praying my slippered feet would miss the piles of horse presents that mined the acreage. Reaching the 5^th wheel, I ran up the steps, threw the door open and stepped into the living room of the Love Shack. Bob, who had been peacefully laying in bed watching TV, bolted upright concerned that something was wrong with Kelly. Relieved all was well inside the house, well, let’s just say Bob is a very friendly guy and showed great hospitality that evening. And that’s about all I have to say about that other than I hope Kelly still hates this blog and doesn’t read this. But just in case....

Keeelllyyyyy......it's allll a dreammmm......takeee anotherrrr pilllll and close your eyessss...... you won't remember a thingggg in the morninggggggg.

Pushing My Buttons

When I first started this blog adventure, I noticed something interesting. Lots of blogs have these things called buttons. Each button is unique to that blog, hopefully making some type of positive statement about it's content. The goal, I suppose, is to get the reader to see the button, grab the code and place it on their own blog. Free advertising. Of course, this only works if you love the blog, think the button is worth grabbing and you're smart enough to cut and paste the code. I usually don't grab buttons because I frequently struggle with that cut and paste smart part.

Anyway, last January my buddy Jessica over at Two Shades of Pink wrote to me suggesting I needed a button. Jess, being the brainiac she is, offered to make the button for Butts and Ashes. What could I say but, yes please and thank you!


Then I got this.......

Now, I am not a completely ungrateful oaf but let's be real. This button is sweet. And pretty. And girlie. And normal. Who in their right mind is going to believe for a nano-second that this button accurately and sincerely represents Butts and Ashes? I'd be sued for libel, for sure, if I enticed unsuspecting masses to visit Butts and Ashes with that button. The poor slobs would read the first three sentences of a post and demand a refund.

Anyway, I had to gently inform Jess that although the button was so sweet it made my teeth hurt and I totally appreciated all her hard work, I didn't think I could use it and still look myself in the mirror. I mean, I do have some integrity. Some.

That's when Jess tried a few more before finally settling on this one.....

Isn't it awesome? Isn't it so me? Vintage, black and white with just a hint of color where you least expect it. And the font? Perfect! No curly cues or girlie swirlies just plain and to the point. I love it! And so, a year later, I have added this little piece of perfection to the blog. Grab it if you like.

One last confession. My new button, although awesome in every way, was not my first choice. Jess, thinking herself a comedian for the moment, sent me a button hoping to shock and surprise my unsuspecting self. Obviously, the girl forgot who she was dealing with. I still say this should have been my blog button. Jess still says something about R ratings, children and common decency.

My first choice?

Wait for it.....

Wait for it......

Wait for it.......



Butts and Ashes. The Woman. The Myth. The Legend.

One last thing. I just heard Jess broke her arm. Please take a minute to stop by her blog, type a well wish or two and let her know you saw the evidence of the day she lost her mind last year. It'll drive her insane. Again.  bwahahahahahahaha



Disgusting, Tasteless & Desperately Sad

No, that is not a description of this blog or of my life, although I can guarantee my sisters would beg to differ. It was actually a statement I heard made regarding casinos. Of course, the moment I heard those words, I thought of my long lost blog and all the crap I had written over a few short years. I decided to go back to the beginning, read through for one last time, then hit delete. The truth is, however, once I read through, laughed and cried, I realized something. I like this freaky blogging chick and always look forward to what she has to say, even when it's pure crap, which is more often than not. I still think she is funny and I wonder where her thought process comes from. It's so different, meaning freaky strange. Apologies to my sisters, children and dead parents, but I simply cannot delete that which reminds me of how amazingly unique, translate weird, the writer of butts and ashes is. So, rock on disgusting, tasteless and desperately sad.

Let's talk disgusting. Wanna know the most disgusting thing I can think of right now? Too bad because I'm going to tell you anyway. AT&T. It doesn't get more revoltingly disgusting than that. After 32 years of total loyalty to a company that could care less, Bob was downsized, outsourced, reorged, blah, blah, blah. Call it like ya played it, you big, godless, spawn of Satan of a corpaoration. When you let 52 managers go, all middle-aged, all within striking distance of retirement, I believe that is not called downsizing, outsourcing, reorging. I am pretty sure it's more along the venacular of age discrimination.

Dear AT&T,

I hate you.

Sincerely,

A middle-aged, fat, white woman who saw her husband cry because of you.

PS....You suck.

Then there's tasteless. I met my sister in Houston a few months back at MDAnderson. The news was not good. Dammit to hell.

"I probably won't even be here next Christmas, Marla."

"Awesome. Can I have Mom's mink coat and her blue chip stamps?"

"Moron."

Yeah, go ahead and cringe while you shake your heads in disgust. I have to be tasteless to avoid crunbling to the ground in a blubbering heap. So go ahead and judge if you must. It won't stop me. Believe me, tougher people than you bunch have tried.

Speaking of desperately sad, thak you Jesus that 2011 is a mere memory. I am not sure I could have taken one more day of it. Seriously, if it had been a leap year, I would have been committed. No, really.

I lost one of my most favorite aunts in the world. She was my last living aunt. My aunt Lillian. She was southern, genteel and made the best tacos in the world. Aunt Lil loved to dance, missed my Uncle Ray every day since his death decades ago and loved her daughters fiercely. She is a major part of my childhood memories and I am sad she is gone. I'll miss that fancy footed redhead every day this side of eternity. I truly will.

Soon after, we received the news that our dear friend, Dick van der Woerd had died. I still don't want to believe it. Dick was a giant of a man and not just in stature. He was a Christian pastor unlike any other I have ever met. He loved everyone, refused to judge anyone and lived every day in a way that made a difference. I know he made a difference in my life. I love him. I always will. I know I will see him again and I look forward to that day. Until then, I will think of him and smile. I hope people will be able to say the same of me when I'm gone. Is there a better tribute than that?

Just a few weeks later, I got the call I dreaded for months. One of my oldest and dearest friends, Lori Parsons, lost her husband Mike. We knew it was coming but that makes the sting no less painful. I continue to cry for and dream about Lori on a regular basis. Thinking about the day Lori called to tell me the news, I have to smile. Of course, my first response when I heard her voice was to blubber like a baby Beluga. But then, in that strangely wonderful way that has always defined our relationship, we began reminiscing and ended up laughing uncontrollably. Any sane person listening in would have been disgusted at the tastlessness of our remarks and remembrances. We were healed if but for just that moment. So I smile.

Anyway, like I said, good riddance 2011. One last thought, if any of you gets the bright idea to die this year, do not call me, because I will never speak to you again. I mean it.