Aunti M Goes To Texas. . .Briefly

Aunti M just got back from Texas.  Well, more accurately, Aunti M was just escorted back from  Texas.  Evidently, it was important that she get all the way home.  It took awhile to get the whole story as the Rangers weren’t talking, and Aunti M wouldn’t quit making goo-goo eyes at them, but after they left, and after a toddy or two, this is what seems to have gone down. I’ll let her tell it as there are parts of it I just can't say. . .

Your Aunti M still does not see what all the fuss was about.  I thought Texas was the Land of Anything Goes but maybe not.  I just went down there to see my friends and go to their art opening at a lovely little cowshed of a gallery right there in The Heights of Houston, all converted and cleaned up and bamboo planted.  White walls and catered, you know the type.  

I asked Marvin down at the truck stop if I could borrow his Texan Sexans tee shirt, and it made the prettiest little dress, came just below my hooha if I kept it pulled down.  Looked mighty fine with the fishnets and my sequined cowboy boots.  The hard part was getting my hair all teased up, but Martha had just brushed the dog so I added some extra on top.  While I was talking Marvin out of his tee shirt (I sprayed it with Right Guard and it got most of the smell out), I noticed they had some beer can earrings right there at the cash register so my outfit was complete.  Packed it all up in my Harley tote bag with the mud flap closure and was good to go.

My friend Nita met me at the airport in Houston. We go way back.  I’m proud to know her even though she only got the bronze back in ’64 (I got the silver).  We were both crowned  Distinguished and Award-Winning Alums at the Tippers and Strippers Conference held at the Reno VFW.   We did our executive training together at Strip and Tip U in that very city back in the day.  

She still looks good,  that Nita, I will give her that . Even though she is one of my best friends in all the world, I could tell at the gallery opening she was jealous of my outfit.   Hers didn’t get nearly the attention mine did, even when I did remember to keep that teeshirt pulled down.

Your Aunti M knows she is an artist, but of a different and special kind than her friends who make these things you can hang on a wall.  Your Aunti M hangs off a pole and we all honor that for the talent it is.

Nonetheless, your Aunti M is cultured, or at least fermented, and that means I have great respect for other people’s efforts to express themselves.  Well, these friends had done just that.  My goodness. Who knew that you could collect all these different things and hold them together in a box and make people realize something about their inner Goddess?  Aunti M has always thought of herself as a Goddess but even I - and Nita - were moved.

So we were having a good time, and there were a lot of people there and everything was going just fine.  But I got hungry dammit and wandered into the room with the punch bowl.  I tasted it and bleccch. . .so I took the mason jar out of the my purse and was fixing it up but then it needed stirring.  Well didn’t see a spoon big enough but I had Pulsing Purple Peter in my purse.  I was hoping the batteries were still good even though I’d given it a pretty good workout the night before, and they were.  Well, you would have thought I’d farted in church for all the ruckus it caused, and I still don’t understand. That’s how I got my return flight bumped up and those cute Rangers to ride with me.  Lordy.  Two of them: one left and one right.  

By the time they got me home, we were good friends, or at least I thought we were, but they wouldn’t let me have any real drinks on the plane and then they declined my toddy offer, leaving me on the porch and spraying gravel in the driveway.  

Well, so here I am, home early so if you need something to do, come on over.  I’m still a little stung over this experience so I don’t want to talk about it, and I could do with some entertainment.  But only come if you’ve got something to tell and a little something to pour.  I’ll let you know when it is time to leave. . .

Aunti M Goes to Canning Class

Martha here.  Well, I had signed up, was supposed to go, but something came up at the last minute, and Aunti M volunteered to take my place.  I should have thought about it a little more before I agreed, but lesson learned. . .

What the hell.  Being a domestic goddess requires freshening from time to time and when my friend Reenie said come on let's go, it will be fun, maybe we can can vodka tonics, I said OK.  It had been boring around Martha lately (what else is new?) as she had been fussing around with houseguests and that infernal garden.  I was itching to explore new territory.

Well, we showed up at the Cooperative Extension Service office with four other eager participants, no one else in sequined short shorts but what the hey.  The teacher seemed glad to see us, although she stared a little at my halter top, but it is summer, people!  We got a nice folder with all manner of handouts and the Ball Canning Book.  Well, that set Reenie off, as canning balls sounded even better than canning vodka, but then Reenie has just broken up (again) with her biker friend Rufus.  So it was on.

The teacher was all excited about the green beans we were going to can because they didn't have strings and wasn't that just "a wonder of the modern world."  Reenie raised her hand immediately and wanted to know if they were GMO's and the teacher didn't know what that was.

Reenie, I said, under my breath, maybe they are just born that way, but Reenie has a thing about GMO's; she has been going to meetings.  So this was a big deal.

Well, we broke them up anyway, the green beans, sitting around a table set just for this occasion, the teacher showing us how to use the knife so it was easier, and making sure we understood all the pieces needed to be the same size.  I asked her if she had a ruler, and she said, going to get one, "why that is the first time in canning class that anyone wanted to do things exactly the right way."  This seemed to make her very happy.

Which was good because this buttressed her against future disappointments when we moved on to grape jelly.

She was pulling a hot jar full of boiling water out of a kettle on the stove just as Reenie made a crack about how the grape juice smelled like the Baptist Church on communion Sunday, "the cheapskates".  The teacher dropped the jar and boiling water splashed across the counter toward two of the completely innocent students.  Well, everybody but the teacher thought this was funny.  She kept saying this was the worst thing that had ever happened in canning class but nobody was listening because Reenie had moved on to telling about sneaking into the Episcopal Church so she could get the real thing.

As she ran for towels, sprigs of her hairdo began to stick out, here and there.

Reenie won the door prize which was a box of old canning jars someone had found in their basement. And she deserved it because she was the one who asked the most questions. It turns out according to the United States Department of Agriculture, which the teacher explained to us is the god of canning,  Reenie, her mother and her grandmother, all still alive, have been doing it all wrong, start to finish. The teacher was very patient and it seems we should all be grateful that Reenie is still with us.

We had such a good time, Reenie and I discussed it and decided we wanted to sign up for every class this teacher taught.  I mean imagine what you could learn to pickle.  We asked the teacher and I guess she is really popular because she said all her classes were already full to overflowing, too bad.

Reenie said she was going to practice at home and maybe even enter a jar of beans in the County Fair.  The teacher explained that the judges are very particular and want the brand of jar to match the brand of lid and the beans, of course, we know this now, to be all exactly the same size.  Reenie said maybe she could find a tequila worm that could just kind of float around at the bottom.

First prize is $4.50, coincidentally, the same price as a beer and a bump down at Tony's Tap and Tanning Salon.  If she wins, I'll let you know and we'll meet her down there. . .

An Update on Aunti M's Public Service

Aunti M is in a rage over an incident she heard about over the holidays.  Evidently some man was fired from his job over his pooting, reported by suffering colleagues to be as much as 12-15 times per day.  Open the damn window!  Aunti M said, unaware of modern ventilation systems.  Evidently she has taken to her Facebook page and is holding an organizational meeting of the Freedom to Fart Foundation which will come to his defense.  Rumors are that there will also be tee shirts; among them:  Blame the Dog! ; and Left Behind!; and The Toot, The Whole Toot and Nothing but the Toot!   I am scheduled to serve toddies and bean soup. I was hoping she would wait until Spring when the meeting could be held outdoors but evidently time is of the essence.

I asked her if she wanted to comment but she said no, she was too busy with the press list.  I was hoping she would agree to just print media, for obvious reasons, but no, she wants the entire effect.  I thought you all would want to know. . .wish us luck.

Santa's Little Helper

Martha here. Holiday greetings, pa rum pa pum pum.  Quick note to say that Aunti M is back home now. The Mall cops, after a bit of persuading, and a little softened up with Christmas cheer, agreed to release her to our custody, without charges.  But I’ll let Aunti M tell the story, even though she is still mad.

I am dadgummit, I am mad but you would be too.  Who knew Santa didn’t have a sense of humor.  And it was all in fun, honestly, but what is the world coming to if a girl can’t get her jollies at Christmas?

It all started Christmas Eve.  Toddies for breakfast, Fa La La La La, and there was a little extra so I put it in my flask.  It seemed the perfect day to go sit in Santa’s Lap for awhile, and to dress for the occasion.  It had been a long time since Aunti M had had on a garter belt and it took her awhile to find the candy cane stockings, the ones that go with the red elf miniskirt and the little fur top, but a few little nips later, and your Aunti M was a thing to behold.  It took a little while to get the TaTas and the black patent leather belt to coexist peacefully, but finally, twas done.

Martha took one look at me and said, “Oh no you don’t” and it was then I realized I was going to have to take this thing into my own hands.  Since she wouldn’t drive me (sometimes she is such a drag), I called Clarence, my friend who makes special deliveries for  "Likkers", his uncles's liquor store and doggy day care franchise.  Seeing as how it was Christmas Eve, and about all his customers were captive one way or the other, he came right on over.

“To the Mall!” I said and away we flew.   We got there at about the tail end of the Santa display.  There were only a few children left in line and Santa was looking a little ragged. The elves were checking their watches and leaving for long smoke breaks.  According to one of them Santa had already been peed on twice, but a quick mopping up had left only a slight dampness and the faintest aroma.  Finally, finally, it was my turn.

“Oh Holy Night” said Santa when he saw me, well it might have been something else, but that’s what I heard. “Santa Baby” I said, crawling right on up onto those massive thighs, just as he was trying to get up to welcome me.  Wiggled myself on down in there, and pulled out the flask.  “Little nip?” I asked him.  “Well, why not”, Santa said,” it’s been a long day.”

They were already starting to take down the candy cane fence and pull up the cotton batting with the spray snow, so Santa and I just sat for a minute, resigned to it all, and enjoying the moment, me wiggling into his lap, he with the flask. His eyes - how they twinkled!  His dimples - how merry! His nose, his nose!  More and more like a cherry!

I was just refilling the flask for the third time from the bottle in my toysack when the Mall Cop lumbered by.  He did a double-take - those stockings on these legs the with the garters slightly showing have always been an eye-catcher - “Wait a minute. . .” and over he came. . .”well here’s a ho ho ho,” he said.

Well, that’s when things kind of got out of control.  I won’t go into detail because you don’t need to know everything but Clarence had been called in for an emergency delivery to Morton’s Rest Home and Tanning Salon (Motto: turn em and tan em), so that left me without a ride.  Santa sure wasn’t in any condition to drive.  Well, truth be told, I wasn’t either, so that’s where Martha had to get re-involved.

Well anyway.  It is Christmas, the season forgiving, so I’m sure everybody has taken a lighter view of all this by now.  Come on over anytime.  We have plenty of fruitcake.  My elf outfit just about doesn’t smell of urine anymore, its been washed three times, and we are all looking forward to New Year’s.

Aunti M's List. . .

Hey everybody, Martha here.  Aunti M has shown up again after several months of travel elsewhere.  She isn't in a very good mood but she insisted on posting anyway.  My apologies in advance. . .


Oh, for Pete's sake. Like she said, I'm back to her house and I have something to say.  Lordy, it has been awhile.  But then I'm not a believer in opening your trap just because you have one, and I've been busy.  First there was that Harley convention at the VFW.  Modeling the Latest in Leather for the Senior Fashion Show was a real hoot although honey at my age, I don't recommend the thong.  Although I thought it looked great with the thigh-high cowboy boots, at this age there is enough Southern drift that the thong kinda disappeared under the folds and it caused rather a stir. Well, some of those old coots needed a little excitement so I don't mind. It's the least a girl can do to provide a little entertainment from time to time.

From there I went to Alaska where it is too cold for thongs for sure.  And although I liked it well enough and would go back if begged, I do have a bone to pick.  I am sick and tired of hearing about the damn Bucket List. In the months working up to the trip, as people would ask and I would tell them I was going to Alaska, over and over they would tell me it was on their goldarned Bucket List. Bleah, bleah, bleah.  I got so tired of it, I decided to make my own list just to break up the monotony.

So here it is, the Fuckit List and right on top A Number One:

1.  The Bucket List.  Anybody's.  This includes yours. Being where you are right now, doing what you are doing right now, is a helluva lot more important to pay attention to.  Manchu Picchu just sounds more romantic than the checkout line at Wal-Mart. Pay attention anyway.

Number 2.  Most Churches. For Pete's sake wake up and smell the bullshit.  If somebody up front is telling you you need to go inside their building and believe in only what they've got to say, wake the hell up.  This is just shorthand for "you got it, they don't" which only causes separation anxiety which leads to war.  And watch out, there's an offering plate coming your way so you can fully express your gratitude to the Church for helping you realize how right you are and how fortunate not to be those other people who don't get it. Go to the woods, any woods - and this is important:  without any electronic device.  Sit still. Stay with the restlessness long enough to begin to hear. God speaks on your channel too.  You just have to tune in.

3.  People walking around talking out loud into the air.  I swear I want to slap these people. And you if you are one of them.  How did their business get so important it needed to be broadcast. I didn't tune into that channel.  Air pollution.

4.  Big corporations pretending to be your friend.  Where the hell does the Giant-Ass power company get off asking me to contribute to them so supposedly they can give poor people a break on their over-inflated electric bill when the whole company is geared toward generating extra money for people who already have extra money to gamble in the stock market?   Supposedly, this ruse is so I'll feel all warm and fuzzy toward this company trying to help the poor - with my money not theirs that with the sanction of the government, they extracted from me and all the others like me in the first place?

5.  Monsanto.  What planet are these people on?  One without children and grandchildren evidently.  The Kool-Aid must be mighty strong.  Maybe it has Roundup in it, that kills off any logical thinking. We already have proof it causes brain damage in children.  Maybe this is another side effect.

6.  Having anybody else tell you what is or isn't good for you.  Especially corporations.  Except Aunti M.  You know what is good for you and what isn't, way down deep, and if you don't, test it, but just a little bit for crying out loud.  Burying the gas pedal on something you are trying for the first time is for idiots, whether that's tattoos or magnesium for constipation.  Start Little. Start Slow. Trust your own instincts, unless Aunti M tells you different.

7.  Constipation.

8. People I love who are in pain and I can't help, even by doing what I do best which is being a distraction.

9.  People I don't love who are in pain and I can't or won't help because they've pissed me off so bad.  But I'm tryin'.

10. Whatever it is, whomever it is that makes children afraid.

11. Flat stomachs.  Where did this come from.  You are born with round, not flat get a grip.  The only people with flat stomachs are either twelve-year-old boys or people who spend so much time at the gym they don't have a life.  You can't laugh very deeply with everything all tight down there.

Well, that's enough for now, and here come's Martha with my toddy. It is about time.  Well, if you have something to say about all this, come on over, there's two rockers on the porch.  I don't need to talk to Martha, she's here all the time, so I would (sort of) welcome the company. Just don't stay too long. . .

Dueling Ta Ta's?

Auntie M.  

I’ve recently been diagnosed with a recurrent breast cancer and now it seems the only course is a mastectomy.  I have the option of reconstruction, but if I do one of the girls will be my age, mid-fifties, another more like a 25-year-old.  Seems to me this could be trouble.  What do you think?

Signed, 

Unsure in the Body Part Department. . .

Dearest Unsure,

First of all honey, let me just say how sorry we are that you are having to go through this again.  Once is more than enough in Auntie M’s book.  Although Auntie M has known several women who say cancer was the best thing that happened to them as it revved up their joie de vivre and made them realize how precious life is in general, let's find a cure for this thing and get our joie de vivre a different way;  chocolate and afternoon delight come to mind.

But on to your question. You have certainly come to the right person, as bosoms and the proper glorification of same was key to one of Auntie M’s careers.  And with two such different specimens on display at the same time, well, one would certainly notice if one was at one latitude, and the other further south; the first rather perky and nerf-ball esque, the second, shall we say, more relaxed, as one tends to be after a long career and multiple children. Plus twenty-five year olds can be rather disdainful toward their more mature sisters and you don't want that kind of attitude on your chest.  And, when you take your shirt off, which we all want to do from time to time, well, that just seems too confusing for all concerned.

We’re guessing that another option is to showcase the remaining breast, let it not have to compete for once in its life, be the Main Event.  (Auntie M is picturing a celebratory tattoo. . .or two.)  And seeing  as how brassieres are all duos, a Pretend Boob could be a place holder under that shirt of yours during the daytime, and no one would be the wiser. Then at night, when it is just you and your sweetie, well, it seems to Auntie M that that is the Most Important Time to be All You, not you plus a nerf ball.

Now, here comes Martha with my toddy, but before she gets here let me just say this.  It is absolutely true that God made breasts, and they are Fabulous, including yours, we’re sure. But God also made cockroaches and Maury Povich, and that doesn’t mean we can’t do without them.  You are so very precious, trust Auntie M on this, she is one of many who feels this way, with or without any one of your parts. Plus, we all need more exercise and you'll be an absolute whiz bang in Senior Archery. Invite Auntie M to the awards ceremony, that's all we ask.  We'll bring the punch. . . 

Men?

Q.  Hi Auntie.  I want to know about men.  Why are they so attached to their Jobs?  In this economy, lots of guys are laid off, and they are miserable to live with!

Signed, Wondering in the Yadkin Valley. . .

Dear Wondering,

This is such a Big misunderstanding. People didn't use to have Jobs.  People don't naturally have Jobs anymore than birds or turtles do.  What people have naturally is Life Juice, that wants to express itself helpfully, doing enjoyable tasks that need doing. This whole idea of Jobs is a later invention that involves Satan and garages and it’s complicated. Men and women deal with this differently, like just about everything else. But you want to know about men, so here we go. . .

About the time History was invented, it became clear that tiny helpless people only came out of one brand of adult, the one also equipped to feed it. It was easier for the brand of person who didn’t have babies hanging off its chest to kill saber-toothed tigers; scary hairy beasts that saw babies as lunchables. Full employment, everybody doing what they did best.

But then saber-toothed tigers disappeared, and people started planting seeds and staying put. Men began to wonder what they were good for, except for planting baby seeds which by then had gotten figured out as necessary to the whole thing and which was enjoyable every time, at least for them.  More research for women in the enjoyable department was required. 

Men were looking for something to do, like be in charge of something and about that time The Old Testament was invented.  And there it was, The Book of "JOB"! Everything was fine, as it usually is in the beginning, God and JOB are good.  But then Satan shows up and starts making trouble (which is his job, you will notice) and  JOB's life as he knew it dissolves, just like your friend’s has done.


The screws on Being Without Jobs wrenched even tighter when a man named Steve took a bite out of an Apple - The Old Testament again - and invented a bazillion dollars in his garage.  Now everybody with a garage is expected to do the same thing, especially men because they are the only ones who go out there.

And that's where we are now, with the men friends who are on the down cycle of JOB.  That's what they are doing on the couch, just taking a little nap, in between pondering the Big Questions: What is it All About Anyway?  And What is My Role With My Family Now That There Are No Saber-Toothed Tigers? And Is God Mad at Me? It just breaks Auntie M's heart.

But here's something Auntie M has never understood.  There is never never never never any shortage of work that needs doing, by everybody, men and women.  If your J-O-B disappears, what you have is T-I-M-E, which you were always complaining about not having when you had the J-O-B.  

If you can just get enough life juice to get off the couch and look out the window, I’ll guarantee you'll see at least five ways you could help out, right now, from picking up all that litter on your very road, to washing windows for that elderly woman who lives down the street and has no business on a ladder.  Or if that’s too much, just smile at somebody that looks like they need it. We can all help.

So Wondering, here's the thing: just remember that these cranky people you are having to vacuum around have simply had a Giant Memory Lapse.  They have temporarily forgotten the big ol' hunk of wonderment that they are. They just got so used to letting whomever's name was on a paycheck tell 'em how much they were worth in round numbers, they forgot about way back when.  And their Life Juice is on Low.  They need our understanding to help get them turned back around.

Don't give up.  Remember, God never ever lost faith in Job and vice versa and it all worked out in the end.  Job got all his camels back, had ten more children, and lived to be 140. And that was before Viagra.

Now I’m going to give myself a rest.  There are other questions desperately needing Auntie M's attention.  Later on,  I’ll get back to M-O-N-E-Y, and how women (mostly) handle this whole employment question differently, seeing as how ever since babies and laundry and men were invented, no woman has ever been without something to do.