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.

Long May You Run

There are some tough things about breathing. Really tough. Things like people you love struggling to breathe and people you love no longer breathing. Those two things alone make breathing for me harder than it should be, in my opinion anyway. Another reason, I am thankful I am not God, even though I think I am most days. Rambling thoughts, I know.

Anydiddle, my little sister Kelly continues to struggle to breathe. Over the last few months she has been hospitalized twice, had her lungs drained three times if I remember correctly and is generally feeling not so great. That’s the crapola part of it. The awesome part however is, she still has a completely bad ass attitude, a wicked sense of humor and a tongue that will whip any unsuspecting bystander. Oh yeah. I am talking like a frog on a fly. Zap! I so love my baby sister.

I am rarely happier than when I am on the phone with her, trying to outdo one another with our sick comments, laughing like the demented bad seeds we are known to be. I am meeting her in Houston in about a week. It’s a trip she is not looking forward to. She is sick and feeling it. She is expecting more bad news. She has nothing to look forward to from her view of it. I am looking forward to every minute of it. Why? Because I will be with her. I will be able to see her, kiss her red hair from a bottle and annoy the crap out of her the entire time with my aggravating ways and stupid observations of life in general. She, in turn, will pretend I am a pain in her ass while trying not to laugh. But she will laugh. I will make sure of it. No matter what.

Kelly brought up the possibility of what might be said by Dr. Gloom at this next visit. It was nothing good. I am not discounting any of her ponderings. She knows her body best and I am sure she also knows the best way to prepare for whatever is coming next. All I know is this. I get to see my sister. That’s all that matters to me.

Bob is sitting here as I type, playing his guitar, singing Neil Young songs to me. He knows I am feeling punched in the gut lately. He also knows Neil always makes me smile. Like now. The song he is crooning makes me think of Kelly.

Long may you run.
Long may you run.
Although these changes
Have come
With your chrome heart shining
In the sun
Long may you run.

I know it was written about his car but it still makes me think of Kel and smile. Long may you run, sister. Chrome heart and all. See you in Houston. You have been warned.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nszR0tfp4Es

Mommy Wisdom

So, I stopped on by to check my email only to find a bazillion emails from people worried about my mental state. Seriously, now you worry? If you have ever read this blog in the past you would have surely realized that crazy runs all through these veins of mine. What I’m trying to say is, thank you and I’m fine. No need to worry about me. Feel sorry for my sister, my friends, that poor guy that’s married to me. As for me, I am fine and dandy and moving along. My last post was nothing more than a momentary mental meltdown that I had to expunge from my head before exploding. Seriously. Life is good even when it’s not. 

I noticed something interesting. People felt really bad for me or they kicked me in the ass. Which do you think made me feel all warm and fuzzy the most? Now, I am not saying kind words fell on deaf ears. I truly and sincerely appreciated every one of them. They made me cry because people care and that’s always a good thing. It’s just that I am ashamed I made people feel bad for me. Like I said, feel bad for the people I love that are truly suffering. They deserve all the love, prayers and compassion this world has to offer. I deserve a straightjacket. Just ask my sisters.

I started to wonder, why is it that kind words shame me and kick in the ass words comfort me? The answer was easy to find. My mother. My mother was a kick you in the ass person. It was how you knew she loved you. She was the first one to tell you the truth you didn’t want to hear.

“Have you gained weight?”

“Those people are not your friends.”

“Is that a pimple on your nose?”

“You are too big to wear that outfit.”

“You can be very funny when you’re not being ridiculous.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You can be such a martyr.”

Yeah, my mom had the gift of encouragement. Even so, the stinking truth is, she was always right. I hated that about her when she was breathing. I miss her desperately now that she‘s not.

Anyway, I am still working way too much but I do have a plan to make some changes. Ok, I am planning on a plan to make some changes. Hey, we martyrs have to take things slowly. It’s how we roll.

Better Than A Hallelujah

There’s a song by Amy Grant titled Better Than A Hallelujah. It’s a good song in my book. It speaks to my heart these days. A few of the lyrics really speak to me specifically right now.

“The tears of shame for what's been done
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes.

We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah.”

Those words say it all for me right now. They speak to my heart and speak my heart. I just have no words of my own. Not to speak. Not to write.

I have been completely overwhelmed by the kindness of so many who have written to me and called wondering where I am. Why I am not writing. Asking how my sister, Kelly is. Thank you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not writing back. I’m sorry for not returning your calls. I’m just sorry.

I am living in silence because the words just won’t come. I honestly work 12-14 hours every day six days a week. Partly because I am trying to succeed but mostly because I am trying to hide.

My sister is not well. We speak very little. I have changed from the caregiver of the family, the one everyone asks for when they are not feeling well to the one to avoid. I am a miserable mess, no help to anyone including myself. So I work. I am good at working hard. I can hide there. I am funny and witty and nobody knows the truth of what a beautiful mess I am inside. That’s all I have to say about that.

In the last six weeks, I have spoken to one of my best friends in the entire world once. Just once. Why? Because her husband is dying and I can’t take it. I can’t take the pain of losing him and seeing Lori hurt.

In the last six weeks, I have learned another friend, Dick is dying. Have I called or written? No. This man is a brother to me. His daughter is a daughter of my heart. I love them. I want to call. I want to write. All I hear is the silence of my heart so I do neither. He may never know the truth of how he has affected my life because I can’t find the words or the courage.

My dog died suddenly a few weeks ago. Just up and died. She was only three. Fat and healthy, driving me crazy one day and dead the next. I sat in the darkness of my closet and cried. I cried like I haven’t cried in a very long time. I cried that my stupid dog died before I knew what was happening. Before I was ready. I cried because I can’t talk to my sister. I cried because I can’t talk to Lori or Mike or Dick or Janneke. I cried because I am a coward and not ready. I am not ready.

God, is this a melody to You? Is it? Because this is the honest cry of my breaking heart.