OPEN MY DOOR AND THEY POUR OUT

I really do like animals.
Animals, babies and old people.  The innocent and the wise.  But where in the heck did I sign up for this?  Ah, that's right Chase.

It all started with Guinea pigs. 

  OK, so if you have a boy over the age of five there is an excellent chance you've experienced the rodent on a wheel, in a cage complete with white shredded pine chips scattered about your home - right of passage.  So far nothing out of the ordinary.   As parents we try to stay off the dog walking and kitty litter detail as long as possible, because it is no mystery who will be doing these chores, and it ain't the kids.  Still a family is incomplete without a sweet little beast to love.

  In this case it was my husband who wanted pets, including a snake and chicken farm.  In suburbia.  The chicken plot was thwarted early on in the marriage, "over my dead body".  But I was comfortable with the decision of buying a guinea pig for the household pet.
 
  How bad can it be?  One small furry thing that doesn't even weigh a pound could not be much trouble.  No trouble at all according to Chase.

 Guinea pigs don't have a long disgusting rubbery tail to identify they are indeed a close relative of the rat. Their long fluffy hair reminds me more of my teenage bedroom slippers than an animal.  This selling point made it entirely possible to pretend it was a pet.

  Care is minimal.  Simply fill a bin with pellets and attach a water bottle.   No vet trips no fuss no barking no shedding.  No frontline no walking no boarding no problems.  They are self sufficient in a cage with a handle.  Chase is happy.  The kids are happy, entertained and learning.  All good right?  Wrong. 

  First off you go to buy one critter and always buy two.  You always buy two. Just accept this.  There are so many of these homeless four legged fur balls, and they can look cute in a moment of madness and of course how mean can you be to take only one rodent then put it in a cage by itself for the rest of it's natural born life?  You take two.

 After being assured that both guinea pigs are of the same sex I gather the new family members Barney and Fred to travel home.  I should have noted the foreshadowing of "hamster hell" from their behavior in the car.  They are not two boys and they are not two girls, so........BINGO!

 Barney and Fred became Fred and Ethel and all hell broke loose.

  One afternoon while vacuuming the bedrooms I notice a huge lump on Ethel so as usual, I call my sister Lucy.

  She answers "Hello?"  I jump right in.  "Oh my god Lucy, I think the guinea pig is sick.  It looks like Ethel has a tumor."  I am received in witty silence.  "What.  What do you think?  What do I do?"  I hear her smile with disbelief as she replies" Ivey, I don't think the pig is sick."  How do you know I wonder.  "While we were babysitting a couple weeks ago, every time we looked in there the pigs were on top of one another.  So a tumor would not be my first guess."

   Fine.  Fine.  So the tumor disappeared after giving birth to three little babies.  Fred, Ethel, Slippers, Socks and Shoes now lived with us.  Chase made them a sign for their bigger new cage.  Home Sweet Home.

   More humping.  Humping, humping and humping.
   Yea, the kids are sure learning alright.

   From the beginning I should have realized that a mammal pinned in for life does not have many options to occupy an eternity of time.  Options?  What options?  That wheel looks good for only so long.  Yea, that's right.  They eat, sleep, crap and hump. Hump hump hump.  Think about it.  What would you rather do spin in the wheel or hump?

  Guinea pigs have no idea of incest.  The thought never crosses their mind.  It is all good as everybody and their brother is getting pregnant.  Now the normal person would obviously separate the two sexes, but because of Chase and his views on animal rights we did not do that.  He thinks they are family members and should stay together.  That was fine until thirteen guinea pigs later I said and I quote "family my ass."

  Too little too late has landed me in a perpetual petting zoo, complete with fair cages, industrial feeding bins and a bunch of hungry mouths to feed.  And, well you know what happens after we eat.  So imagine several big disgusting litter boxes, not just one, like with a cat that I was trying to avoid.  Oh, and they don't call them pigs for nothing.  The pellet bin is a facade.  They eat vegetables and fruit all day long in between the humping.  I reckon it gives them a healthy appetite.

  Thirteen guinea pigs, seven rabbits (don't ask), two birds,two dogs, two turtles and two cats later............
 It starts as early as I rise.  One foot on the floor and everybody with a tail thinks they are being called for breakfast.  Sometimes it's just a false alarm, if I use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Hearing the immediate jangle of dog collars and jingling cat bells, I have to firmly whisper "calm down people not time yet."

 Free roaming critters alone are four pairs of eyes lookin at me as if to say "bring on the vittles broad."  This is before my offspring are awake, or I go outside where the beloved cages now stand.

  With the unsullied vision of a Monday morning quarter back, I understand why each of us go through this 'cage' stage with no warning from our family and friends.  While in the midst of inbred rodents, you are far too occupied to have friends or know who your family members are.  Because you are damn busy with the feeding schedule, cleaning up pine bedding chips and emptying the ever ending droppings pan. 

  I know one thing.  Who ever had this scathingly brilliant idea to keep rodents as pets, never won any award.  And I, Ivey Mae McFarland, can tell you exactly why.

"LOOK AT YOU"

Brigg is stretched taunt from head to toe like a cat after a nap but this boy ain't been sleepin.  He his wide awake.

  His soft coarse hair feels so good beneath me. Glancing up his eyes are tightly shut and  head back.  All the way back.  Pausing I can taste him move as every sensation is alive.  We kindle each other setting nerve endings on fire. I linger wanting him to need more.  The room is stifled in passion as our desire consumes us.  Each breath grows louder and my eyes find his as he sits up and whispers  "Look at you."  

Reaching my hands out at the same time he weaves them tight between his fingers.  Hazel eyes are piercing mine.  He is staring into my soul and there is no where to hide.   

MY FATHER HE WALKED ON WATER-Randy Travis

"I loved him and he loved me and lord I cried the day he died because I thought he walked on water.  Although his wings were never seen I thought he walked on water".

   The storm rushes across the Atlantic as a sheet of white water drenching the rustling palm froms on contact.  I miss dad so much it hurts while sitting in the middle of the sounds he loved, without him.  The same waves he heard lap at the rocks lining the shore.  Virile trade winds insist as the morning sun climbs higher in the dusky sky.  Looking in the near distance I see a boat anchored all alone.  Breezy gusts rock the dingy as salty water caresses its sides and the lullaby relaxes my soul.

  The sun starts to crown and is beating out the clouds for existence.  Seagulls squawk as their wings fight the very thing that keeps them afloat.
I know the feeling.

SO DID SHE CALL ME A WHORE OR NOT?

I dig Sunday evenings.  The slow prelude to another week of life.  That  cozy nostalgic feeling of being safe with the ones I love.  Conscious of here and now as pork chops sizzle in the frying pan and the aroma of fresh baked bread fill the walls around me drifting into the family room drawing the attention of my son to holler "what you cookin?" My kids are putting together the puzzle from hell and faint sounds of Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn singing "after the fire is gone" waft from the distant stereo in my bedroom.  Home is where the heart is. As the rain continues down in a light drizzle I feel content.  Even though I am not. 

 Then, I get the bright idea to visit my mother. It would be nice for her to have some bread and she is probably lonely.  She is always lonely.  Swiping my lips golden pink I grab the warm cornbread and some strawberry preserves, glance in the mirror and am out the door.  My sundress swooshing behind me and the soft rubber under my feet feel good landing at the bottom of the porch.

 Going against my better judgement I walk in her direction.

 The sun just dipped below the horizon.  Night has descended but it is not deep dark yet. A slight breeze tries to cut the humidity and fails but I don't mind.  Focusing on nothing but the quiet evening around me I walk the straight distance between my mother's home and mine. 

 Our road is lined with bright dandelions and daisies and abundant Tennessee rain has nurtured green foliage all about the expansive estate.  It is such a lovely walk even in the rain.  Perhaps especially in the rain.

  Mother's front lights twinkle in the distance.  Getting closer, whatever she has on the stove rushes out to greet me.  My mom loves to be in the kitchen and is the epitome of a southern cook.  Sticks of butter in everything, too much salt and she always has an apron on. An apron and a moo moo. I adore aprons but prefer to wear them alone.  Shoot me if I ever want a moo moo.

  The gate squeaks as I open it and slowly slams to the sound of Little Bit her half poodle-pig running to see who it is.  Well not exactly running because of physics. The dog is as wide as long so it looks like she is jogging in place as her feet click click click click click and getting no where fast.  Add in the thrilled whirley bird tail going a mile a minute and I am surprised she doesn't lift off.  Woofing at the top of her lungs here she comes!

  Yea I'm scared.

  Soon enough Mother appears at the screen door not scowling but not smiling. Now I can guaran-damn-tee ya she can ward off an intruder. Uh oh, so much for a pleasant evening. Hey, if I couldn't turn the car around before you know I ain't got many options here.

 Leaning forward as she comes out I gently kiss her cheek. "Hello Ivey where's your umbrella?" "It's only sprinkling it feels good "  I tell her in return. "Lets sit" she responds and I follow her lead to the rocking chairs. Oh brother I have already let her down.  No Umbrella?

 This is from the woman who wears a shower cap out in public on a regular basis to protect her perm.  I mean, she has this thing on her head running errands to the store and dry cleaners.  The grand kids are delighted when she picks them up from school in a shower cap; particularly the teenagers.  My mother always swims in a shower cap.  I realize there is nothing that prohibits her from using the shower cap as a rain bonnet and swim cap but it IS a SHOWER cap.  I have never in my life seen her use an umbrella. Ever! She should be asking me where my shower cap is. 

  "Did you take the kids to church this morning?" she inquires. 

 My pulse quickens.  "Yes."  Then, like slicin butter with a hot knife she continues "Did the roof cave in?"  Boom. A glancing blow. It didn't even leave a mark.  

 Outwardly ignoring the comment I keep talking, but never sit in the rocking chair as she lowers herself, and looks up at me. " You know we don't go every week.  I don't want to go every Sunday but dang it.  Seems like they are literally chasing us down in the parking lot to find out why we don't stay for the meetings afterward. They hound me as to why I don't come every week. It's just too much. The Bishop asked me about a month ago to make plans to visit our home. I think they are just being nosey. The church council wants to find out if I have a husband and where he is.  They don't know what to think about us as a family and on top of all that, sometimes I wear a sleeveless dress. A big no no."
 
 Without the slightest hesitation she replies "Tell them you are a whore, you don't have a husband and you are not coming to church every week."  Her face isn't reflecting humor. I stop still and look at her dead on. Mitigating my words carefully buying time as my brain scrambles for cover.  Then, "Mother do you think I'm a whore?"  Smiling to herself she states ever so sweetly with her rocking chair smoothly creaking along.
"Well if you are a whore honey you are not a very good one.  Or you would have more money."  As an apparent after thought she adds "but if you tell the church people that...... I bet they'll quit askin."   Oh, I think but do not take the bait.  "Good night mother".  Not sure whether to laugh or cry walking through the gate I don't look back, but instead down the dark street towards home.

   

OH GOOD

Well, one less thing to worry about.  I thought maybe I had the beginnings of cataracts, glaucoma or magulate degeneration(not sure the spelling) but, not to worry as they say in Utah, it was just my make-up sealer.  Now I know why you are supposed to close your eyes and hold your hand a good distance away, when you spray your face.


  More good news.  The stuff works.  Now that my vision isn't blurred I have ascertained the makeup really stays pretty and it is not that I thought I looked good, but just could not see.  It does look good.  I love breakthroughs.

POCKETS

OK, so I am forty-six years old. A mature woman to be sure, yet far from old and in my case even middle age. You see I am a late bloomer. A very late bloomer encasing an old soul. Anyhow when it comes to our age, mother is neither here nor there. We are her children and it is her right to say whatever she wants.  And she does.  On a regular basis.

   Mother dear has her priorities straight. Always, always always always look your best. Slim is the only acceptable weight and secondly roll your hair. This is a sensitive subject with my sisters but I sure as heck do not have time for that now because I am going to tell you instead about mother's number one fashion rule, the day I bravely broke it and big surprise, surprise, surprise here.  I got caught. 

  A lady should never wear pockets.  And I mean no pockets. Not high pockets not low pockets not dark pockets or light pockets.  No pockets.  Ever.
 Pockets  enhance the proportions of your rear-end. They make your fanny look bigger than it is. She is right they do. Mother wants her daughters to look good coming and going.  Period. Curly hair and a small butt.

  I will give her this one, pockets are not my favorite.  I lived without them for 46 years.  Then last  week I went school shopping for Hayley and Hannah, my adorable 13 year old twin daughters. Hayley was insistent upon me trying and buying a pair of Bermuda style jean shorts WITH POCKETS  She was adamant that if I did not purchase them there was something wrong with me. Heck, what does it mean if I was afraid to even try them on? 

  I must have temporarily lost my mind but as I kept turning and looking I noticed they did look cute. I think.

  Yesterday as we drove the long winding path from the main road, the girls simultaneously noticed mother.  Grannanny was watering her luscious pink roses lining the front fence, white and picketed of course.  We had to drive right past her to get home.  It was make a u-turn or back up to avoid eye to eye contact and they were both viable options, because I had on the shorts. With pockets.

  My palms always start to get wet when I'm rattled or nervous. Clutching the dripping wheel I could feel my pocket buttons nearly penetrating the stupid shorts, as unconsciously I was bearing my butt into the seat.  It was too late to run for the hills as she is waving us over.  And smiling.  I did have on the shorts but I am not that brazen to turn and flee.  Besides, the smile usually means you might not get insulted.

  Pushing in the clutch we stop and the girls jump out to kiss their grandmother as she gently hands them each a flower, and they smile.  I stayed right where I was. 

  I am suspect immediately.  Watching the rear mirror as she slowly walks towards me adjusting the brim of her lovely hat.  There is no denying her graceful beauty.  Now I am focused on her eyes and have decided I am not getting out.  

  "Hello Ivey where have you girls been?"  Guard up.  Ass down.  I answer "Just running errands.  The roses look beautiful come on girls do you want to walk home or jump in the back?"  

  "Don't rush off" as she looks me up and down.  "What are you wearing?" "Nothing mom I'm kind of in a hurry girls lets go."  As the smile starts to descend she repeats herself "What are you wearing, are those new?" 

  Beyond irked, I stand up and turn to face her.   Repeating myself quite insistent this time. "Girls! lets go!"  They run towards us but mother is not to be deterred "walk over there and let me see the shorts....." Just cutting her off mid sentence with my hand in the air to stop, dreadfully I comply.

  Trying to walk so she can't see the pockets she starts "Turn around, turn around, what is wrong?" Taking the path of least resistance, slowly I pivot, apologizing of sorts in antipathy "I know, I know, just don't say anything I have on pockets!" Quickly facing forward again, I start walking to the truck where the girls are taking in the scene, she is not satisfied. 

  "No" she exclaims, "Let me see again?" Completely given up I turn and stand waiting for the onslaught of how big my butt looks, however, noticing a peculiar puzzlement in her now lowered voice. Standing in silence the respite seemed long and curious. I wondered why isn't she saying anything, and then it came. 

  "Well" she exclaims in pure astonishment and thinly veiled disgust as I look over my shoulder at her ..... lingering for the fighting words........ I ask "What mother what??" A smile curls her face and she says "They don't look half bad............ almost cute........now that your ass has dropped." 

SMOOTH AS A STRIPED APE

   His urgency mirrors mine but I can't relax.  My heart is racing and I need to come up for air.  "God you smell good" he tells me.  "So do you" I respond softly, and turn to kiss his neck.  Brigg arches his back and moans out loud like a man.  Then with the impetuous sweep of his big soft hand, gentle as a stroke of cotton, he releases my bra and I laugh.  "What?" he says feigning innocence in a grin he ain't even trying to hide.  I smile back totally amused by his apparent pride in his expertise at removing a woman's bra.  Smooth as a striped ape.

  His eyes twinkle as he grabs my breasts full in each hand.  "Come on" he says in that sweet southern drawl.   Then he takes me out of the kitchen and down the hall to the only sound of our bare feet on the cool tile floor.

WE USED TO THINK SHE IS CRAZY

Anal bleaching?  As if coloring and highlighting my  hair, shaving my legs and anything else in the vicinity of a two block radius, loofahing from head to toe, bleaching my teeth and continual trips to the dermatologist to dispose of sun spots were not enough......  I am reading where one more thing has been added to the grow old gracefully list and that is, to bleach your anus.  You heard me.  Yes, bleach your anus.  And I'll say right off the bat, the aforementioned is alot of bleaching.  Better make darn sure you don't get all those bleaching agents mixed up, or you will really have some damn problems on your hands.
 
Here, I might as well introduce you to my maternal grandmother Lily Mae, who has long gotten a bad rap for being crazy.  For instance, when we were children and spent the night with her bathing time was ridiculos.  She made each one of us fill the tub three times. Her standards for a good bath were so extreme it was comical. 

    We are eight.  So my sisters and brother and I  would line up with fresh p.j's and paperbacks, waiting in unison for our turn to get clean.
First, a pre-rinse to remove any loose dirt.
Second, wash and rinse.
Thirdly, sit in a little bleach.  Not much just a dash.  We were squeaking clean.
 
   Now think about it all these years later.  If we had kept up how Grandmother washed us, not a one of the eight would need any anal bleach.
Hell, she ain't crazy she is cutting edge.   

THE DEVASTATING MAN AND THE DEVASTATING SISTER

He moves forward thrusting his body against mine, pressing my back to the kitchen sink.  There is no slowing him down.  He commands me.  The scent of his polo urges me on.  I want him too.  Reaching my arms around Brigg's strong shoulders I see his perfectly handsome face, as he finds my mouth with his tongue.  We kiss wet and firm while his body stills my scattered energy and pins me in place.  Making out long and hard our lascivious bond is revealed as we smooch in passion and moan a mutual satisfaction.  We are happy to be back in each others arms.   

GOT YOUR DRAWERS ON?

Who knew my underwear or lack of it, would become a life long topic of conversation between my mother and me.  Not me.  I have been busy.  Thinking about men.  My daddy used to call me Will Rogers, the famous American who never met a man he did not like.  My name is Ivey Mae McFarland.