Wednesday, May 30, 2018




“Don’t Pee Down My Back and Tell Me It’s Raining”


By Patricia White
 
I have heard most of these sayings ‘dang near’ all my life. I’ve tried to explain the context in which they may have been used and my take on them. The names have been changed to protect the innocent but some of the words could not be changed, lest they lose authenticity. If you are offended, remember words are just words…
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Mama said.

Bird Nest on the Ground- Finding a treasure in an unexpected place, like $100 on the Casino floor or full roll of toilet paper out in the woods.  

Cold as a Witches Tit in a snow bound – Think Madonna in her pointed metal bra, skiing in Beaver Creek, Colorado. Pretty dang cold.

You’re Cruising for a bruising – Don’t mess with me or I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich.

Split your britches - You have really screwed things up. Jesus take the wheel.

Gickempucky- Any kind of stuff one mixed up with unknown ingredients. Like stuff grandma concocted and grandpa rubbed on his athlete’s feet.   

She thought she killed a fat hog – Bought Kraft Dinner at dollar store, five for a dollar, and they threw an extra in for free.

That chaps my butt  Someone really pisses you off. Like a case of the royal red ass. Boudreaux’s Butt Paste doesn’t help much in this situation. Remember though, being pissed off is better than being pissed on.

Make Hay while the sun shines-  Earn money when opportunity presents. Like, selling sliced, homemade pound cake by the coffee pot after church on Sunday. It also means, work you’re a$$ off when the getting is good because tomorrow is never promised.

Whitie’s out of jail – If someone yelled this at you back in the day, it meant your slip was showing; with today’s short skirts it might mean your panties. Just saying. And who wears slips?  

Not enough cloth to pad a crutch – Description of above mentioned skirt.

Step-ins – What my mama called our panties. Step into your step-ins.

“Shotgun” – When a bunch of us were heading out of the house to the car, whoever yelled “Shotgun,” had dibs on the front passenger seat by the window and control of the radio.

Up Shit Creek without a paddle- There’s no getting out of this mess. You in deep doo doo. Start praying. 

Narrow-minded – When I was a teenager, I could not go out with a boy who was non-Catholic (specifically Baptist) or from the North side of the tracks. My Daddy was narrow- minded.

Fat lot of good that did – Had nothing to do with fat or good. When your mama sent you to the store for sausage and you came home with a can of Vienna sausage, fat lot of good that did when she was making Gumbo.

Nervous as a whore in church- Well now, this shouldn’t take too much ‘splaining, especially when she saw the Priest with the torch, lighting the candles, chanting, Sinners come home.

Hissy Fit- This is more of a Southern term for when one gets her panties in a big wad and runs around crying, swearing, demanding and throwing things. Somebody better fetch her a Valium or a glass of wine, pdq. 

Running around Like a chicken with its head cut off- That would be me an hour before company is arriving. If you’ve never been to a farm-yard chicken slaughter, then you don’t know that after a chicken’s neck has been wrung, (sorry) and its head is gone, (sorry again) it keeps running around in circles. FOREVA!

Doesn’t have Pot to piss in or window to throw it out of- Now, this poor soul is really broke. All I can say is, God Bless him.

I swan – What my grandma used to say when she found something hard to believe. I think it was short for I Swanny…. or ladylike for I swear!

Couldn’t find his a$$ with both hands – An obviously stupid person who is beyond help. You can’t fix stupid.

Grinning like a possum eating sour grapes - Possums usually live on bugs, worms, berries and the like. Eating sour grapes would bring on a smile where their lips curl back and you can see teeth. People who grin like this are usually guilty of something.

Don’t pee down my back and tell me it’s raining – Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I know what rain smells like. 

If her lips are moving she’s lying – Need I say more? You know who you are.

Snatch her bald – What I will do if a woman tries to steal my husband. 

Better give your heart to Jesus ‘cause your butt is mine – You have pissed me off one time too many. Taking no prisoners. Run like hell.

$hitting in high cotton – How the Nuevo riche’ act until the money is gone...or the boll weevils eat all the cotton.

Thinks the Sun shines out of his behind –Over-inflated ego. (you’re thinking of someone, right?)

It came a turd floater – Rain came down so hard, it flooded the yard and the dog poop came floating up.

Like a cow pissing on a flat rock -When rain hits the sidewalk so hard, it makes a big splash.  

Don’t make me go to lying- What you said when asked about something you were not supposed to tell or when asked something you knew the asker really didn’t want to hear the answer to. 

Birds of a Feather Flock together – If you love Jesus but drinks a bit, you will seek out like- souls. If you’re still here reading this and can relate to some of these slightly irreverent definitions........I guess we’re Birds of a Feather. 
 
Say what you mean and mean what you say. Hope this clears up some matters for you and gives you pause for a chuckle.

Be Blessed!!
 
 



Saturday, May 19, 2018






Spring Has Sprung……Things Have Changed
By Patricia White


The Easter season is almost over and I’m just not quite ready for Summertime and all that comes with it.   I’d rather bask in the memories of Easters past and the things from my childhood that have stuck in my memory and in my heart. When I was a little girl, during Easter week, my sweet daddy would load my two sisters and me into our army jeep (our only mode of transportation) and drive us just a few blocks to a nearby lake, where he would point out over the still water to the big white shiny orb, free-floating, in the silky blue sky over the State Capital Lake in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. It was magical. Daddy called it the Big Ole Easter Moon, and said it would be there every Easter, and it always has been. My grands and greats are not so enamored with it when I tell them the story, but the sweet nostalgia and tradition are mine, not theirs. Things have changed.

We always had new Easter dresses and shoes, no matter how much money there was. My mama could take fifty cents worth of material and copy and make any dress she saw in the display window of Tots and Teens on Third Street. The five of us always showed up at St. Agnes Catholic Church on Easter Sunday, marching in with McDonald pride. Things have changed.

On Easter morning, our baskets were filled with dyed eggs in every vibrant color in the rainbow. Sprinkled in the green store-bought grass were jelly beans, malt-ball eggs and maybe a Goldbrick egg or Heavenly Hash egg or two. Sometimes, we got those large sugar eggs with a peep hole in the end where you could look inside the egg and see an Easter scene.  As we got older, there was always a specially-wrapped gift beside our basket that contained a pretty pair of silky summer jammies or some other treat my Mama knew we’d love. I thought we were the luckiest girls on earth. I was the oldest of The Three musketeers. I’m not sure I always deserved or wanted the pressure of being the oldest, but I was the self- proclaimed chairman-of-the-board for as long as they allowed me to be. Too many bossy personas. Things have changed.

Easter usually entailed an outing with my parents, a group of friends and their kids. When we moved to a house with five acres in the country, our home became the gathering place. But in the 50s, we were the lucky family with acreage on the Old Hammond Highway and an outdoor brick barbecue pit. We thought we were rich. Wish I had a picture of that relic. It was roughly constructed of white bricks and mortar with a tall chimney. The grill was huge and could hold at least ten chickens and fifty hot dogs. Friends came out from town to spend the day bringing every kind of food and dessert, not to mention adult beverages. We had a basketball goal, croquet set, badminton gear, a pond with a homemade raft and a 45-record player. Those gatherings were so much fun. We played games and danced all day. Things have changed.

One memorable Easter Sunday, as we were driving to church after a hard rain, the roads were muddy in places. As daddy neared our church, he hit a puddle and splashed muddy water all over three little girls walking along the road in their Easter finery. We were horrified, and Daddy was so ashamed but couldn’t bring himself to stop. Mama was speechless, but I’m sure she and Daddy had a come to Jesus meeting when we got home. I prayed to God in church and told Him that he didn't mean it. Daddy never forgot that day and reminded us of what he’d done every Easter Sunday for as long as I can remember. I still think of that awful sight every year on Easter and wish there were some way I could pay it back to those children. If you were one of them, I’m sure you will let me know. 

Shortly after Easter, we started thinking about the end of school and summertime and all the fun we anticipated. Many years the summer included a trip to Grand Isle for a week. We swam, crabbed and played on the beach all day. When the sun set, we dolled-up  to go with our parents to the island juke joint, Tony’s Rendezvous, where we danced with the local boys and girls, and where we learned to Shimmy.  Hubba Hubba. The nuns would not have approved, but they weren’t there. The adults sat at another table and enjoyed their adult beverages and gaggled on. They kept (maybe) one eye on us, but we were to be seen and not heard on those occasions unless someone was bleeding or unconscious. 

During the years that we stayed home all summer, the days and nights were filled with adventure as we roamed the State Capitol grounds by day, riding the elevator to the 34th floor (the observation deck) and taking the stairs back down, stopping to sneak into the empty Senate chamber, then as a finale, walking around the ledge that circled the huge State Capitol building (about three stories from the ground). It was more fun than a roller coaster with many Hail Mary  moments. Hours were spent devising a plan with needed tools to get into the old Fort that sat behind a mysterious ivy-covered brick wall. Our only summer rule was, Be home for suppertime. After checking in and eating, we were back out into the neighborhood until dark-thirty, after at least ten games of hide ‘n seek. With no air conditioning, we took a cold bath to cool down enough to go to bed. Dressed in our Easter jammies, we crawled up on the bed in the room we three girls shared, to listen to Baby Snooks, The Great Gildersleeve or The Shadow Knows. Daddy switched on the big fan he’d built into a frame for the window. That fan magically drew the cool night air from the window across the room as we listened to the radio or talked about the next talent show we would produce in the back yard. If we were lucky, every now and then we got a bowl of ice cream before we settled down to sweet dreams. No cell phones, color TVs, or video games. Can anyone say imagination? Things have changed.

Daddy was a do-it-yourself man. He told us, If Daddy can’t do it, nobody can. Once, we asked him to make us some stilts and the next day, he came home from work with lengths of wood and nails and by nightfall we had three pair of stilts, made to order. He smoothed the wood, so we never had to worry about splinters. We spent days learning to walk on those stilts, then dance or cut didos. He taught us to make walkie-talkies out of tin cans, buttons and string. What happened?  Nobody makes anything anymore. Along came Amazon. Things have changed.

I remember once when we were on an outing with other families Bar-B-Q-ing and hanging out in the woods. I needed to go to the bathroom. Daddy walked with me until he found a fallen tree with a forked branch for me to perch on. That’s the way he was. He always found a solution for everything. He was a can-do person. He set the bar high, and when I became a parent, I always tried to be the mama who made things happen too. Only the Shadow Knows for sure. 

When I was a growing up, happiness was a pair of skates, a table radio, jacks, a bolo paddle, a book of paper dolls, a pair of stilts and Grand Isle. For my kids it was bikes, forts, fishing, tent camping, s’mores and Florida. Things haven’t changed much for me.  Give me a book, a skein of yarn and a crochet needle,  a Motor home and Laptop on the lake’s edge and I’m happy. 

For kids today summertime means………. the battery on my I-pad is dead, I don’t have anything to do. I can’t even relate.  It’s going to be summer before long and a long summer for some Mamas. Somewhere on that long road, things have changed!







Monday, May 7, 2018




Fifty Shades of Green
By Patricia White

     My mission for today was to shop for yarn for the beautiful crocheted afghan I promised to make for my youngest daughter. I know it’s hot as hail to be wrestling with a mass of yarn in my lap, but I promised.  Choosing yarn colors is rough when you are color blind. I must depend on someone else’s eyes to determine true color. In my present cataract condition, purple looks like brown, pink looks like yellow and what I think is seafoam may really be sea weed.

     Hobby Lobby has the largest selection of yarn at reasonable prices. I’ve been to some fancy shops where a skein of yarn had about enough to whip up a potholder, at $12 a skein. Do the math. Thirty-six of those tiny skeins would cost $432. I’m sticking with Hobby Lobby. So, once there, I encountered color names like, asparagus, butter bean, kale, roasted celery and cabbage. Sounds like a soup menu. Whose idea was it to re-name basic colors these she-she-names? At my wits end, I quit reading color names and tried to rely on what’s left of the color-discerning part of my eyes. After stalking each aisle repeatedly, feeling, smelling and comparing, I selected a beautiful green color and thought it was spot-on. There were no employees in site to get help from on my color choice, so I went with my gut. I tried to get color affirmation from the hippie-looking lady at the check-out, but she was too preoccupied with the nail she’d just broken. No help there. When my yarn was checked out I hurried to the car, where Mr. Leblanc (aka my hubs) patiently waited for me, working on a Sudoku puzzle. I excitedly pulled the yarn from the bag and before I could say a word, he asked why I had gotten blue when I wanted green. Blue?  One quick glance in true sunlight told me it really was blue. No one knows how much thought and aggravation really go into one of these side projects of mine. Gosh Doggit, my purchase had to be returned. I hoped the lady in the moccasins and pigtails, who was no help at all, would be at lunch when I returned. Color-tricked once again. It was now close to noon and I needed a bowl of gumbo and   generous pour of Pinot Gris. My man is so patient. He said it was no problem and we could return the blue yarn after lunch.

     As previously planned, we joined friends for a mid-day repast of some fine Cajun fare and bull session to catch up on everyone’s mental state, gallbladders, $1200 crowns, knees, veins and hammer toes. One of my BFFs mentioned she was dreading an upcoming procedure. That nasty rear end, “let’s take a peak way up in there,” and starts with the letter “C.” I did not want to go there as I dipped my wonderful French bread into my gumbo. I had one of those roto rooters once. The Doctor told me that he would give me meds before the procedure to induce amnesia about the whole incident once it was over. Well, Sister, half way through I got my memory back. Yes, I did, and I screamed. I later heard that my scream cleared the waiting room.  I was very sorry to have frightened anyone, but the doctor should have kept his promise. I did not tell my BFF about waking up during my look-see. I suggested an emergency subject change and we finished lunch and chatted about some old geezer-band playing locally and the possibility of catching one of their gigs coming up that weekend. After our meal, we enjoyed authentic Cajun bread pudding with rum sauce for desert and the chatter wound down.

     We hugged and kissed goodbye and promised to see each other again before they loaded us all up on that senior bus we keep reading about on Facebook. That’s where we get most of our hard news. I knew before the year was over, we’d either be on the bus or under it the way things were going for Seniors and Medicare and those of a certain political persuasion. Just saying.

     Back at the Hobby Lobby, I began, once again, to peruse the shelves for the shade that was stuck in my craw – sea foam green, like the color of the foamy waves that break in shallow water in Destin, Florida. I re-dug through every yarn brand, the clearance bin and even got on the red phone and asked if they might have any yarn hiding in the backroom. No luck from the lame duck on the other end of the phone.  My eyes were blurry and watering from the dye after looking up close at fifty shades of green. Totally frustrated, I carried two different skeins of yarn to the returns counter, where Pocahontas was now working. Again, I asked her opinion. She proceeded to educates me about blue and green pigmentation and dye processes. Who the eff cares? I was buzzing from the Pinot and not in the mood for Textiles 101. All I wanted to know was which yarn looked most like Sea Foam Green to her. She said, neither. So, I opted for the one that looked blue. I ran back to aisle 26 and grabbed eight more skeins.

I made my exchange and bolted. Last time I picked the green one and it was a true blue in the sunlight. Therefore, blue would surely look green with the yellow of the sun mixed in. Blue and yellow still make green, right? My Pinot brain is making perfect sense. Since it was now overcast in the parking lot, I was guessing it would look just right. When I got back to the car, I pulled out a skein and handed it to Mr. Leblanc. He said good job on finding Sea Foam Green. I asked if he was sure. He handed the yarn back to me and pointed to the label. Sea Foam Green.  Well, I’ll just be switched. How did I miss that? I got this color thing. We were backing up to leave as I caught sight of Pocahontas running out of the store towards us. She had my cell phone in her hand. I rolled the window down and reached out for it thanking her with all my southern Pinot charm. That’s when I noticed her eyes were two different colors. One was light brown and the other sea foam green. Or was it Blue........
  



Wednesday, May 2, 2018




Knee Replacement.....The Struggle is Real
By Patricia White

I knew about six years ago that my knees were going south on me, faster than new meds were being developed to treat them. A total knee replacement was not an option for me at that time as far as I was concerned. For several years I had regular steroid injections as well as Synvisc injections. I would ask my Doc each visit if he thought my really bad knee was ready for the next step. He always shook his head and said, "not just yet." I'd ask if it was really a big deal. He always said, "Yes, it's a big deal." At least he was honest.

We were just coming off a good year of being back on the tennis courts, Zydeco dancing every Friday night at Swampy's, our favorite watering hole/restaurant, water aerobics, gym workouts and even a little Pickle Ball at the Y with the old gummers. I think the Pickle Ball was what did me in. The final curtain came down on my knees. 

After two scopes and a micro-fracture, there was still not much improvement in my worst knee. I became sedentary way ahead of my time.  I worked with a trainer twice a week for a year. My goals were to keep my knees moving and to avoid replacement at all cost. The extra exercise was giving me back, hip and ankle problems so I quit everything. After a year of hobbling around with a cane, being dropped off at the door of every place we went, I just kind of quit doing most things. I became an arm-chair shopper and saved all my energy for cooking and doing simple things around the house. I felt like life was passing me by. It was decision time.

I went back to my ortho only to learn that he was no longer doing knees.  But, he said that his associate was a highly trained and skilled surgeon, recruited from California, and was doing the latest and greatest new MAKOPLASTY, robotic assisted surgery. That info gave me a real sense of assurance somewhere between, OK, let's do this and run like hell!!! With much urging from all my peeps, I scheduled an appointment and went for a consultation. In a fog of information and anxiety, I heard someone setting up a surgery date and suddenly realized it was me. I was on auto-pilot. Surgery was set for one month out and it would take that long to complete all the assigned tasks, x-rays, meetings, etc. Well, one month was way too long to have to think about the things I knew they would do to me. And if I heard correctly from well-meaning friends, with tools from the woodshed. Besides all those crazy thoughts, a new problem developed. My ankle on my good leg gave out completely, necessitating a steroid injection which moved surgery out another month. I prayed daily for a sign from God whether I should do this thing. The ankle issue looked like a sign to me, but I waited a bit longer for a bigger bonk on the head. Then, one morning, my gut just told me I should not and could not go through with surgery and I cancelled. Yep, all the tests, meetings, etc. Erased from my calendar and my mind.  We southern girls know we must go with our gut feelings. I breathed a sigh of relief. No more worries about surgery. But the problem was still there, big-time. I'd figure something out after the holidays.

Thanksgiving was tough as I always prepared a large portion of the meal, but Christmas put my behind in a sling. We had 35 for Christmas Eve and nothing was too good for my family.  I slaved for days making the house and preparations perfect, all with the help of my precious husband. A lot of meltdowns, hugs, Tylenol, icing of my knee, etc. My family could see the strain and after Christmas, told me I just had to get my knee fixed.

January 2, 2018,  I called and rescheduled surgery for February 6.  I was scared again. Shitless. There were dietary changes to make which demanded an increase in protein, old meds to be stopped and new ones started, three-times-a day exercises, x-rays, scans, labs....OMG, meetings and my regular life still needed to go on.

Surgery day arrived and so did we at 5:30 am, ready for this piece of cake everyone touted. Surgery took about 45 minutes and I suppose all went well. With the nerve block in my leg, I was up and walking four hours later. I thought, wow, this is going to be easy. Only because I begged and had a meltdown at my final Dr. visit before surgery, I was able to stay the night in the hospital. New Medicare guidelines now deem knee replacement for Seniors, Day Surgery! You heard me.  I made it through the first night post-op, then it was time to head home.

One thing we failed to plan out was how I would get up into the truck for the trip home. I was so high on drugs and residuals from surgery, I have no idea how I got up on that seat. I think they may have used a back hoe. When we arrived home, I just kind of slid out of the truck onto a thick cushion on the garage floor and trudged inside collapsing on the first soft surface I came to.

Shortly thereafter, I moved into the bed which became my pillow-lined nest for two weeks. The bathroom was 14 steps too many away.  I cried during every round trip. I was taking pain meds every four hours, day and night.  My hubby was cooking grits in the middle of the night for me as I had to have food on my tummy to tolerate the meds. Or, he was fetching pudding, milk, ice, cookies or something 24 hours a day. The struggle was real, for both of us.  I was unable to take anti-inflammatory meds because of previous heart issues and it was making recovery and healing slower than I could accept. I was not prepared in advance for the situation I found myself in. Are we ever? Poor pitiful me. I put on a good face but most saw through it.

The weeks dragged by with what I thought was more than my share of pain and nausea. I started some aggressive outpatient physical therapy about week three. My range of motion improved rapidly but the pain lingered. Everyone encouraged me to just take the pain meds. Don't let the pain get ahead of you, was their mantra. After six weeks of aggressive therapy, I began to fear that I would become addicted to the meds and against all recommendations, I started to taper off. The pain wasn't gone just the medicine and I was in meltdown mode most of the time. Each therapy session seemed to make matters worse. I prayed constantly for relief. I lived each day by faith, not by sight, as I saw no signs my knee was getting well. Jesus take the wheel!

With one physical therapy session left, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I called my cardiologist and insisted that I be allowed to take something to reduce the inflammation. My ortho wanted me off the pain meds and to go to pain management. Against my better judgment, I called to make the appointment and the nurse started talking long needles and injections on the phone . Game off. I called in my prayer warriors and I devised a plan to get better in a hurry. You don't really need to know my plan because it probably changed each day and it encompassed a lot of things, mostly God driven. I'm finally getting where I need to be. For me, it has taken almost three months after surgery. It's different for everyone. There is no norm, which I was looking for. The nights are still a little shaky because I'm unconsciously protecting my knee all night long, thus waking up a lot. But if I wake up and my knee is throbbing, I put a soft pillow on top of it and tell it to go back to sleep. Alas, I am so much better! No tears for several days or waking up with unexplained, free-floating anxiety. I think I've got this. I still have a few more months to go before I get my stamina back and to feel like I truly have a new knee. We signed up at the gym today and paid for a year in advance. I am committed.

The Struggle Has Been Real!!! My family has been the REALEST thing of all, present every step of the way with love, meals, encouragement or whatever we needed. No surprises there because that is how we roll, 365. My goal this morning was to make it through today as some days over the past few months it was to make it through the next hour. Baby steps from February to May and I took every one of then, not alone, but with God’s help.
  
I AM A SURVIVOR.








Wednesday, December 13, 2017

What a Difference a Year Makes

By Patricia White


I used to feel as though the days flew by, then it was the weeks, and now it’s the YEARS!! Every time I turn around it is Christmas again. The day after Labor Day, I now see  Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas Decor go on sale at Hobby Lobby. As soon as the merchants warn us we have 119 days until Christmas, the year is almost over again. Run, run Rudolf ‘cause I’m reeling like a merry-go-round.

First on my agenda this year was Cataract Surgery that went very well. I’m going to tell you I was crazy-kind of scared, no matter how many people told me it was a piece of cake. I did my usual praying for days beforehand that all would go well with no complications. When the day of surgery arrived, being very anxious, I began to pray to Archangel Raphael, whose specialty is healing (i.e. fixing broken things). When I checked into the surgical center and got all gowned up, I was told my nurse, Raphael, would soon be in to take over my care. My heart skipped a beat when I realized my own personal archangel had come to be with me. I teared up. Need I say more? I had one eye done on Monday and one on Wednesday and came down with the flu on Friday of the same week.  Although my eye-surgery outcome was perfect, 20/20 vision gave me no consolation as I trotted like a goose back and forth to the bathroom …. a reaction to Tamiflu. I know, let’s get this New Year started, right??? 

Fast forward a few weeks, with a glimpse of spring and slightly warmer temps, we moved our motor home to our favorite spot on the lake for three months. Being only an hour from home, we had the luxury of motoring back and forth when the neighborhood natives got restless or the sandbox got too crowded. Or when we just yearned for the pleasure of drinking our morning coffee on the lake’s edge as the ducks swam by, nodding, “Good morning, Humans.”  We loved being out there, hanging out in our little gazebo, grilling, dancing in the moonlight and drowning worms, until Spring sprung and the heat drove us home. As we wound our way out of the park on our last day, we heard a loud crash. With a bedeviling feeling in my gut, I opened the door and I saw that we had wrapped our still-extended awning around a telephone pole. By means of a little help and a few bucks later, we secured the mangled awning to the side of the motor home and thanked God that was the worst thing that happened during our stay. The Glampets were on the road again….headed home. A good time was had by all who visited. Fo sure!

Between the heat, the rains and Hurricane Harvey, it was an eventful summer. If you didn’t have water in your house, you were blessed. We were blessed. Neighbors were helping neighbors with many paying it forward. We saw much sadness but a lot of gladness too.  We lost our precious kitty, Tiger, but as soon as the airlines were flying after the storm, we got another precious kitty, a two-year-old female, Doll-Face Persian from Troy, Missouri. Cakes is the happiest and sweetest kitty in the world. Dogs have masters, but cats have staff. Indeed! Cakes came from a household with four young children and many cats who kept her entertained. We try to run, roll on the floor and play with her, but the challenge is real. LOL. Albeit, this is her forever home and we love her to the Moon.

We endured football season, ignored Halloween, thoroughly enjoyed Thanksgiving and here it is Christmas time again. The purple and gold LSU tree is up, the Nativity is in place and years of decor is scattered around the house. Outside lights are blinking and Santa Baby is playing on a small but melodious speaker in the kitchen window. I can still remember Eartha Kitt singing that song, do you? CYO Center, circa 1953. We are prepared to host our beautiful family for Christmas and anxiously await the arrival of Baby Jesus.  

Like I said, what a difference a year makes. Family members were reunited, a new baby was born, two more on the way, new friends came into our lives and old friends crossed over. We are survivors, warriors, wild ones at heart. I’m getting a new knee in 2018. Wonder Woman goes Bionic! I hear that Zydeco Music playing, waiting for me. I shall dance again. Stay tuned…💕

Miss Cakes







Monday, July 11, 2016

Two Old People and Their Cat



By Patricia White

I started this blog a year ago this month. I was pretty regular for several months and then it was Christmas and I was knee-deep in inserting gift cards into envelopes and straw-bossing some amazing Christmas house decorators. I am the Queen of Excuses these days. For someone who used cloth diapers and has always made everything from scratch, including Valentines, I now use a service for anything we can afford. It no longer floats my boat to do it all myself.  I get joy from just getting out of bed and making it to the coffee pot with or without a cane. When we are not running the streets, hunting and gathering, I have no problem being lazy a large part of the day.  My seventy-six-year old body is not cooperating with my forty-six-year-old mind so I have to settle for entertainment wherever I can get it. I have become an arm-chair shopper rather than a mall rocker. My hubby asks what I want for breakfast and he then fixes it for me. (Bad knees) In return, I ask where he’d like to go for lunch……and so it goes. We needed more and after a lot of thought and consideration we decided it was time for Pet Therapy.



I got my mind set on a beautiful doll-face Persian kitten around Christmas and had to wait patiently until the end of April to get him. He jetted in from St. Louis all by himself at ten-weeks old and we collected him at a remote cargo location at the airport. The agent first shoved a handmade wood crate at me that housed a big green bird. Nope, not mine. I hate birds. Look again, cargo man! Then the agent found a tiny crate with our little kitten crouched in the back. I peeped inside, our eyes met and I wept!  Come to Mama, I purred. It was like having a baby all over again but without the duck walk and labor. We named him Tiger because he looks like a Tiger. He is an apricot ball of fluff now, quickly losing his stripes, save for his raccoon tail and some facial markings. 
`
We bought a fancy bed/house and I made a beautiful little purple crocheted afghan for him but he chooses to sleep under our bed on top of the spare dining room table leaf, naked and cold. He’s not even interested in tearing the afghan apart.  We have purchased one of every fun cat toy there is but he prefers to play with a fat rubber band that says WWJD, a wine cork, a paper bag or small cardboard box. He decides when he will sit in our lap, when he goes to bed and when he goes potty. Just keep his toilet flushed and his dish full of kibbles du 

jour  and he is happy. At four-months old, it is easy to see he is an Alpha Cat. They say cats aren't trainable, but everything is negotiable with Tiger at the sound of the crinkle of a bag of kitty treats. Crinkle, crinkle. 
I'm coming, mommie, I can change!





At six-thirty a.m. T-man jumps up on the bed and pounces in the middle of my chest. He purrs, licks and kisses my face.  He snuggles my neck and meows for me to get up. I adore this kitten so I slowly crawl out of bed and carry him into the den to start the day. Once I open the bedroom door he jumps from my arms to explore the awesome wonders of the parts of our house that have been shut off to him all night.  First stop, the breakfront to check out the ceramic rabbit. Tiger: And, who the hail are you? Me: You crazy cat.  Seeing me settled in my chair, sipping coffee and waking up, he heads back to the bedroom and begins working on my hubby, who in a very short whil­­e comes walking into the den, carrying the cat. Tiger has done his get-your-ass out of bed routine on Mr. Leblanc He wants everyone up and at his disposal. He is funnier than a circus clown.  Well, we think he is funny but you know old people will laugh at anything. He gets away with murder because he can outrun us. I know, right!





And, Tiger is hypo-allergenic too! No Shinola!! No sneezing or itching or runny noses here.  I comb him everyday and tell him how gorgeous he is and that sweet kittens don't bite and that he can change. When he’s not playing hide-n-seek, or trying to lick us with his pointed little teeth, he loves watching TV. He thoroughly enjoyed Wimbledon, moving his head from side to side watching the ball. He turned to look at us periodically with an expression that said, “nice shot, huh?” 


Kitty Poo just about tore our Venetian blinds down so we had to spring for new wood shutters. That's what  pet owners do for their forever-kitty. Right?  It all worked out for the best, because I've been wanting wood shutters for three years anyway. And, Tiger can't climb or swing from these here ones  and get hurt. We open the lower louvers and he crawls through and onto the window sill for sun bathing or frog watching. No telling what he thinks about what's beyond the window pane. Maybe he thinks it's Cat Heaven or Chicago. 

We  feed him warm, pureed chicken breast for dinner every night and supplement it with expensive varieties of dry food for his noshing pleasure during the day. Tiger doesn't go outside because he doesn't know there is an outside. He is definitely a lounge lizard and easier to raise and care for than any other animal we’ve ever owned, or child for that matter. So, we’re really in love with this adorable kitten. In the two and a half months we have had Tiger, I’ve accumulated 157 pictures and 16 videos on my phone. Don’t judge! You have not seen how really fluffy and beautiful he is, like pale orange cotton-candy. But, I’m fixing to throw one last magazine-worthy picture out here  before I sign off.
If you’re not a cat person, read no more………..LOL........He probably doesn't like you either.

                          

































*


Thursday, November 5, 2015

The Bless*ed Dressing

By Patricia White
     
     With the patio door cracked open, I could feel the cool evening breeze as I waited anxiously for my hubby to get home from work. Sitting in my favorite spot, in the corner of our brown leather sofa, I was sipping a glass of Cab and working a crossword when my husband walked in. He had a big smile on his face and gave me his usual, sweet, hello kiss.
     “How was work?” I asked. 
     “Fine. The Thanksgiving Feast is coming up the end of next week and Tammy asked me if Pat would make the cornbread dressing.”
     I looked up from my crossword puzzle and said, “Pat who?”
    “Pat, you. You’ve spoiled them, they love your dressing," he said

     Because I was working last year, Tammy had to order dressing from the building deli and no one liked it. It was dry and had too much sage. He said that he told Tammy he was sure I’d be happy to make it. I bit my tongue, I was not happy, or flattered or thankful.
“Well, I was hoping to send the rolls and butter this year, but I’ll do that for you.  By the way, is everyone    preparing a dish?”
“No,” he said. “Those who don’t cook gave Tammy ten dollars to buy stuff.” I headed for my purse and offered him a twenty.  He looked hurt. 
     “It was a joke,” I said.  “Of course I will make the dressing.” 
 He volunteered to shop for all the ingredients and to chop up all the veggies for me in advance.
That little piggy went to market.

     A few days after he volunteered my services for this culinary undertaking, I woke up one morning and my right leg wasnt working.  The bottom half of my leg went one way and my knee went the other. There was no explaining the bum knee, just untimely bad luck; maybe it was good luck with the dressing thing.  I thought for a second I was off the hook. But I’m not one for making excuses and I did have my CVS animal-print cane, and at worst, Mama’s walker was in the storage closet.

     After trying to walk with a cane unsuccessfully for several days, I saw the Doctor and sadly accepted the news that I had bad joint strain and had to stay off the knee….if I could.  Rest and ice. That was two days before the gargantuan task of making my better than store bought dressing for thirty something of the dearest people in my husbands office.  I was also to be the delivery girl and my timing had to be perfect.  Somehow I had to get that twenty-pound pan of hot dressing to the truck if I had to tie a rope around the handle and pull it out there.
”I’ll huff and I’ll puff……………
 
     The day before the feast, I made the cornbread, sautéed all the veggies, mixed it all up with my special secret ingredients and dumped it into the big pan with the handles and shoved it into the fridge. Next day I had only to bake and transport it. Just as I got the kitchen all cleaned up, standing on my good leg, the bad leg propped on a footstool, the phone rang. It was hubby. Now, they wanted a big bowl of my delicious gravy to go with the dressing.  I guessed that next they would want me to dress up in a uniform and serve. I was injured, my leg was getting no better and I was not warming up to this kitchen frolic. I was having un-Christian-like thoughts.

     As I rolled over in bed the next morning, the day of the feast, I had a burning pain up under my left wing (Yes, I have wings). I was sure it was a pulled muscle from pulling myself up and down with my old flabby arms.  This was becoming a nightmare. I had dressing to bake, gravy to make and somehow load it all into the truck with only half of my mojo working and now, a busted wing.  I just wanted to cry, but I pretended to be better as I walked my hubby to his car, like I did every day. I blew him a kiss as he drove off into the blue-sky morning. He offered to stay but I insisted it was no biggie.
     “See you at 11:00.”  I mouthed, with a tear in my eye, as he backed out of the carport.

    The fridge was opposite the oven so transferring the dressing was not too taxing.  The Angels were hovering over me. Mama must have sent them down. I could feel a warm presence. After a short while, a wonderful aroma was wafting from the oven and I was just about done with the gravy when the phone rang. It was hubby.  He said he would need our electric knife and asked me to throw it into the box.
     “What box?” I asked.
     “Well, the hot gravy should be in a box so it doesnt spill in the truck.”
     “Of course, why didnt I think of that?” I said sarcastically. Where in the hail was I going to get a friggin box?
     “Hold on,” I said, as I switched the phone to speaker and laid it on the counter.
     I squatted on one leg to dig the electric knife handle from out of the back of the kitchen cabinet. I finally reached it just as I dropped my cane. I fell to the floor and screamed. I shouted toward the phone.
     “I’m OK. Baby got back, just not enough to soften that fall.”

      I silently cursed everyone on the tenth floor of One Riverway as I pulled myself up off the kitchen floor, fished the knife blades out of the drawer and threw everything on the countertop. I remembered there was an empty wine box in the dining room from last night’s wine run.  The mail lady was peering into the dining room window. What the hail was she looking at? I guess she’s heard me scream.  I was breathing heavily when I finally picked up the phone.  
     “OK, its all in the box.” I said.
     “Are you OK?”
     “Yes, I’m fine.”
     “Try to be here by 11:15.” He said sweetly.
     “OK, I’ll do my best.”
     “If you need me, I can come home and get all that stuff.” 
     “No problem, I’m good,” I said. (I’ve had four children, two with no anesthetic, I got this).
 
     As I reached over the counter to hang up the phone, I knocked half a box of Swansons chicken broth off the counter and all over the floor and my jammies.“Sorry, Angels, I know I need my mouth washed out with soap.” I wiggled out of my jammie bottoms and dropped them on top of the mess on the floor, hoping to sop some of the broth.  Last thing I needed was to slip and fall. Now that my pants were off, I could see that my knee was swelling more. I would foot-mop the floor when I got home.
This little piggy was mad at all the little piggies in her husband’s office.

      I crawled up the stairs to take a hot bath and dress for the epic delivery of what was becoming the Bless*ed dressing. I put on fresh jeans, a really cute top, silver turkey earrings, make up, extra mascara and teased up my hair just in case Eye Witness News was there or someone from the office insisted that I come up and share this pre-Thanksgiving bounty. No pitiful looking Patty here. 
Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

     When all the food was at the perfect temperature I started to work my plan for getting it all into the truck.  I rolled the dressing to the truck on the desk chair, then the box with my delicious daayum gravy and serving tools and slammed the door shut. Then I called hubby.
     “Im rolling and will call you when I get close to the office.”
     “Thank you, baby,” he said. “You’re the best.”

      I10 was like a log jam. A long funeral procession was in the right lane and someone was moving a house down the other two open lanes.  I would not make it by 11:15. As I pedaled my SUV down I10, more than frustration was setting in. I had full blown road rage and a temporary case of Tourette’s.  I was starting to hope lunch would be over by the time I got there with the best part. Some twisted part of me said they didnt deserve my dressing.  When I was finally able to merged onto 610, it looked for a minute like the Woodway Exit was blocked off. 
“Oh look, a makeshift exit,” I shouted to no one. “Yee Haw for the office, I will make it with the Bless*ed dressing.” I called Hubby to let him know the eagle would land in five minutes.

     Hubby met me at the car and said I wasnt late; everyone was upstairs sipping wine, eating hors doeuvres and having fun.  He removed the dressing from the back of the vehicle and the box with the gravy and electric knife parts and placed it all on a small dolly.  He thanked me and gave me a quick kiss.
     “No problem, Sweetheart, just be sure to tell Santa Clause I was a good girl this year.”

      He laughed as he hurried off with my epicurean delight. He was so proud I’d made the dressing. I didnt really want to go to the party.  Eye Witness News wasnt there either. All my fluffing was for nothing. I started the truck and headed straight for Chico’s to shop for a beautiful new outfit I so deserved.
This little piggy did not cry wee wee wee all the way home.

     Back home, mid-afternoon, the phone rang.  It was Hubby.
     “The dressing was a hit,” he said. “They ate every morsel of it.”
     “Good,” I said. “I am here to serve.”
     He said he just had to call to tell me how delicious it was and that it was a good thing he didnt need the electric knife.
     “Why,” I asked?
     “When I reached into the box for the electric knife, ­­­­ I found the top of the hand mixer and two electric knife blades. But, it’s OK, someone brought a knife,” He said. How thoughtful, I thought.
     “So whats the problem?” I asked. “Cant an engineer work those electric knife blades with the mixer top?”  He laughed. How could I have been so discombobulated?  What knee, what wing pain? Only another Super Woman would understand.  We laughed and said the usual I love yous and hung up.
 
     The following year, the office Thanksgiving feast was catered and this wicked witch spent the holidays packing her pots and pans for a move to a new retirement community where no one outside of my beloved family has ever tasted my “better than store bought” dressing…….and probably never will.
 

Happy Thanksgiving, Y’all!!!