Anyone Hiring?

Hey Kel,

Well if things weren't bad enough with me having a dead sister and all, now it's affecting me at work. I hope you're happy.

In the last two days alone, I have come completely unglued at work. Did you see me? Were you watching, because I had this eery feeling you were standing there laughing like a hyena the whole time. Which, by the way, only made me madder at you. You are such a jerk sometimes, even when you're dead.

The first time it happened was when that one customer I always told you about called on Thursday. I mean, seriously, happy freakin Valentine's to me having to listen to hear screech about nothing. I am so sick of her calling just to complain and cuss. Normally, I can handle it with my usual amazing personality. Ok, so my sarcasm goes over her pea-brained head. Still, she never gets the best of me and you know that's the truth. Until Thursday. When she started in from the minute I answered the phone, well, I just couldn't take it. I started crying and yelling in the phone at her.

"Oh! My! Heavens! Poor you having to pay a debt that you owe and late no less and then having the nerve to scream at me the minute I pick up the phone. Well guess what? There are worse things in life than paying your bills on time. Things like your sister dying so I suggest you pay your bill and be done with this conversation before it goes any further south. Got it!!"

"Are you crying? Why are you crying"

"MY SISTER DIED!!! NOW PAY YOUR BILL!!"

The good thing is, she paid her bill. The bad thing is......oh hell, the only bad thing I can think of is I have a dead sister. But I just want you to know that I am almost sure I heard you laughing over in the corner as I sat there at my desk sobbing once I hung up the phone. Idiot.

Then tonight, when Ryan came in to pay his bill, I was trying so hard to help him. He is such a nice kid and we get along so well. Why did Alison Krauss have to start singing right at that moment? There was something in her voice that reminded me of you. Not that you could sing like Alison Krauss but still, there you were again. I heard it, looked up from the computer at Ryan and said, "My sister died last week." Then I fell completely apart. The harder I tried to stop crying the harder I cried. Then Ryan started crying and came behind the counter to hug me.

It may be time to find another job.

                                                             I miss you, stupid,

                                                                                Me

Heartless

Hey Kel,

Did you forget it was Valentine's Day? I wish I could have. I thought about all the years past with you in them. Do you remember how we had the same routine for what seemed like forever? Every stinking Valentine's Day for the last thirty plus years, a ridiculously large box would arrive. It would be filled with more candy than a small nation could produce. Oh, and need I mention how everytime we added another kid or grandkid to our brood, the box would miraculously grow larger. It was Jesus with the fish and loaves all over again.

Then there was the same stupid phone call every year.

"Kelly, why did you send so much candy? We don't need all this candy, you idiot."

"Hey, nobody said it was for you, tubby."

Yeah, we really loved each other. Anyone listening could tell, right? I waited all day for that box to show up. I cried when it didn't. I got angry at you for being dead. I mean, at least you could have anticipated being my dead sister and set up Valentine's day boxes to arrive like clockwork for the next thirty years. That way I could keep pretending you aren't gone. But you are gone, aren't you?

I drove home from work today and thought about your laugh. I thought about how I could make you laugh so hard you held your nose and threw your head to one side. I laugh the same way when I think something is really funny. Did you ever notice that about me? I think I just realized it.

You would be so proud of Bob. He did everything possible to make today special for me. I know he is trying so hard to help me feel better but I catch him crying a lot lately. You broke his heart too, ya know. You were the only one that called him Boobala. Who will call him that now? That meant something to him. Do you think I will pick up where you left off? Well, I wont! I can't even say Boobala without crying. I mean, seriously Kel, what kind of legacy have you left us? Crying over missed Valentines and stupid nicknames.

I called David tonight on my drive home. Remember how I called you most nights driving home? I so desperately wanted to dial your cell phone, hear your voice and really allow myself to feel the misery I 've shoved deep down in my gut. But I was afraid David would answer and be upset that his lunatic sister-in-law is trying to contact her dead sister by cell phone. So, I just called David instead.

"Happy Valentine's Day David. This sucks!"

"Yeah, it really does."

Then, believe it or not we went on to have a really nice conversation. One I am not going to tell you about because you are dead and I am mad at you. But it was good and you would have wanted to be there for it.

Please don't be dead much longer. This is not working for me.

                                                                 XOXOXO,

                                                                       Marla

There Once Was A Girl

Hey Kel,

You died one week ago today. One week. How can this be when it feels like only seconds have passed? I gave your eulogy. I said something funny and made people laugh just like you asked me too. Do you have any idea how hard that was? I think you probably do. It was you getting the last laugh on me, wasn’t it? It took me days to write and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite. I finally deleted the whole damn thing the night before your funeral and went to Cayucos Tavern at midnight. I drank way too much and sang Rolling Stones songs way too loud. Can you believe that? Me, getting soused until 2a.m. and making a fool of myself in public. How unlike me, right?  The next morning, I sat in bed and wrote, bawling my head off the entire time. Did you hear me yelling at you? How could you be so selfish and leave me? How could I be so selfish and want you to stay?

Anyway, here it is. I mean, just in case you missed it.

 

The first time I met Kelly, she was 10 days old and I was 1100 days old and Char was just old. My mom came home from the hospital carrying this pink blanket that she laid on her bed and I thought surely I was finally getting that monkey I wanted. I remember lying on my parent’s bed, disappointed for a moment that she wasn’t a monkey but kissing Kelly’s forehead again and again, smelling the sweetness of her skin. She smelled like sugar cookies to me.

 

I loved my baby sister. We had the best times together. Like the first time our mom left us home alone and Kelly and I decided to build a fort in the living room. The living room we weren’t allowed to play in because it was reserved for company. The living room with the brand new Mediterranean, putrid green furniture. The living room with the giant naked angel lamp. Yeah, that living room. As soon as our mother’s car was half way out the drive, Kel and I ran to the garage and got a can of my dad’s infamous twist and tie. Back in the house we strung that miraculous twirly green wired string from the giant bulbous putrid green Mediterranean lamp on one side of the room all the way over to the giant naked angel lamp on the other side of the room. Then off we ran to our bedroom, grabbed our bedspreads off our beds and flew to the living room squealing with anticipation. This was gonna be freakin awesome. As we flung our bedspreads over the twist and tie, the two lamps hurled themselves at us at something like a million miles an hour. I’m pretty sure I heard the angel screaming.

 

As teenagers, Kelly and I went different directions. My life goal was to get married and quickly over-populate the world. Kelly’s goal was to rule the world. She started at KFC and ended up in one of Corporate America’s corner offices. It was downright freaky watching her morph into our dad, Charles Casas.  I mean she had the business suits, the Cadillac and minions. I remember her boss buying her a black leather jacket one Christmas. It was beautiful. I especially liked the writing on the back of it: The Wicked Witch. It’s what I had called Kelly for years. I felt jealous many a day at her life. I still didn’t have a monkey and she had flying monkeys. The truth was, those monkeys loved her. I think a lot of them idolized her. She deserved everything she achieved. She did it the old fashioned way. She earned it.

 

As adults, Kelly and I drifted apart for a minute. We didn’t understand each other very well. Then the first brain tumor happened and nothing else mattered. Our differences didn’t matter, our life choices didn’t matter, our faith or lack thereof didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered. We were in it to win it. Together. Kelly and every single person she loved and who loved her. We were in it to win it.

 

For years I wrote about Kelly’s journey. Some people were amused. Some people were offended. I was told more than once that I was inappropriate, disrespectful and rude. I made fun of my dying sister’s circumstances. She was the butt of my jokes. I posted pictures of her with really bad hospital hair. I put our private conversations out there for the world to read. There was only one reader I ever wrote for though. Kelly. She told me from the beginning I was not allowed to cry. Too many people were crying over her life and it made her sad. She asked me to write about her life. She told me I had to be funny. The best days ever for me were hearing Kelly laugh. That and hearing her call me a moron. Moron meant I had hit a home run for her. Like not that long ago, she was really sad. And she was worried about me. She asked me where I saw myself in ten years if I didn’t make some changes.

 

“Well, Kel, ten years from now I believe I will be in the poor house, jail or a convent. It’s hard to decide which way to go.”

 

That got a “moron” from her.

 

Kelly’s last words to me were, “Say something funny.” She said it twice so I made fun of her hair. Yeah, right there in the hospital as my sister lay dying, I made fun of her. A few nights after Kelly was gone, I realized she was talking about today. She was worried about all of us. She wanted us to laugh.

 

In closing, I want to say thank you.

 

Thank you Theresa for being the one Kelly would save if we were all on a sinking ship with only two life vests. We love you.

 

Thank you Rachel for loving and caring for my little sister through thick and thin and I am not talking about her weight fluctuations. We love you.

 

Thank you Cher. Thank you. For cooking. For cleaning. For yelling at Kelly to get off her ass and walk. For laughing with me until we cried and crying until we laughed. For sleeping with Kelly when she was afraid and sleeping with me when my heart was broken. Thank God for women like you that sleep around. You’re an angel and I love you.

 

Thank you Char and Debi, for still being alive. I love you both. Char, I promise to let you put makeup on me and do my hair. You can even take me shopping now and then. I promise to pretend I like it. Deb, I promise to call you and talk about Char behind her back like little sisters do. We can laugh and giggle at how old she is. It’ll be fun. I promise.

 

To Kelly’s minions, past and present. Thank you for loving her, encouraging her, writing and emailing. Calling and visiting. Thank you to “her girls”. Karen, Gina, Denise, Nicole, Pam and all the rest of y’all for all the weekends. She dreaded you seeing her before you got there and then did nothing but talk about what a great time she had with you. How much you did for her, physically, spiritually and emotionally.

 

To our family……there are just too many of us to name but I can honestly say, Kelly loved every single Walter/Casas family member. She loved you. 

 

And finally, David…..Thank you. I know it wasn’t easy. I know how hard she could be on you. I also know how much she loved you. I thought it was totally gross when she told me she was dating a tattooed biker. Then I got to know you. I still think you’re gross but not because you’re a tattooed biker, just because you’re a guy. We love you David. Remember…..we‘re still a part of your posse…..or gang…..or pack……or whatever it is you people call it.

 

So there it is. Did I do ok, Kel? I made people laugh. That’s what you wanted, right? I think that’s all I have to say to you for now. In truth, I am not speaking to you today. I am really angry with you. So is Char. That’s right, we are talking about you behind your back. Deal with it!

 

                                    Love,

 

                                            Me

 

 

 

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!